I went outside the other day and found a coin in the snow. It was worn down, smooth-er than it would have been if I was handing it off in the throes of its ethereal momentum. Maybe the 8th century? Some other age that we have only a feeling or sepia tone with which to paint its face? I stared rudely, held it close, strained to scrape off some semblance, purpose.
I took it inside and put it in a box, in a drawer, in the back of my closet, next to all of my other memories, and never looked at it again.
I went outside the other day and found a coin in the snow. I walked over it; no sense in picking up a nickel.
I went outside the other day and found my son in the snow. In the backyard he was hunched over, a hole dug down to the blades of grass that fit their title much more so in this chill and freeze, and holding a coin. A half penny from 1809 — the classic head designed by John Reich, one of 1,154,572 printed that year. I took it from him and went to my workshop, or shed, or shack, or ramshackle; pick three. I took it there and punched a hole straight through. The small puck fell onto my floor, where I kicked it into a pile of sawdust, hiding the puck of my half penny from the world forever. Then, I took a long, braided chain — Figaro, silver — and threaded it through. Fastened a clasp, then walked back outside and found my son, still in the snow, frantically searching for more. We had not yet spoken this year.
“Get up, boy.”
He turned to face me and I slid the adornment around his neck, still warm from my shed and my hands. He adjusted it, and hid the back of his half penny from the world forever. It stayed on his neck, face out, until, one day, it found its way into a box, in a drawer, in the back of his closet, next to all of his other memories, which he never looked at again.
