by Abigail Swanson
Sometimes words get stuck in my brain and jingle behind my eyes until I extract them and form them into stories. New words picked up from other places join them, like ingredient lists on the back of packaging most people just throw out, not even pausing to look at perfect phrases like “wild red rice” or “cooked brown barley.” Whoever wrote that ingredient list was a poet, even if they didn’t know it, and I should know, because I have one desperately trying to get out through my fingertips.
Silver flashed. The snow bordering the sidewalk melted back. A 1991 Jefferson head nickel lay abandoned in the mud. I picked it up with frozen fingers and rubbed off grit. So much more than the usual penny.
The last time I met my grandfather before he died, his brain was already dilapidated, thoughts lost deep inside. He sat in his blue recliner, sucking on pieces of Dove white chocolate and repeating the same story every half hour. He and his father went down to Green’s shop and got ice cream, three dips for six cents. One penny more than I found on the ground. Pocket change, the kind that falls in silence.
The silver coin stole the warmth of blood returning to my fingertips. It used to be valuable. It still could be if someone redeemed it. Its worth: exactly five hundredths of a dollar, almost three dips of ice cream.
I let the coin jingle into my coat pocket. How many stories passed on student feet? What would it say if it could write instead of only dreaming?
My grandfather worked in numbers, delving through accounts, seeking out misplaced pennies and nickels, forcing books to balance. He loved giving and sharing. He was the first in his family to earn a degree. He collected elephants, hundreds of them. He left behind a wife, four Children, six grandchildren and a legacy of generosity written into those around him.
Years of service barely scratched my nickel. Bartered and exchanged countless times, perpetually passing from person to person. The coin remained almost identical to its past, newly minted self. The writing standing up from its silver surface still shouted out, “five cents!” Meaning something different to everyone who used it or held it in their hands, wondering what to do with all the little round things they received in exchange for paper.
Abigail Swanson is a business and creative writing student at Chadron State College in Chadron Nebraska. She published work in Tenth Street Miscellany, an undergrad writing journal as well as a weekly column in her campus newspaper. Abigail is a head editor for Tenth Street Miscellany and a member of the Sigma Tau Delta International Honors Society.
