COINS. The buildup in our purses, our pockets, our cup holders and mason jars. Coins that collect as dollars and cents, a vacation, or a savings fund. Bronze, silver, ten, twenty-five, five, and one; all the coins, of wishing wells and long lost corners.
And somehow, they are always a burden. He or she, they’ll pull a handful from their pocket and say, “Just one minute! I’ve got to get rid of this stuff.” Two-dollars and thirty-three cents later they’ll say, “Now I can walk straight,” as all the coins are, however harmlessly and unintentionally, somehow leading us on the cockeyed paths of a long road.
My pockets are full of change, of a wicked metal buildup that has accrued inside the linings, a fortune of misfortune that I am trying relentlessly to squander, or toss into the small container next to the till, ‘take a penny, leave a penny’ and wish it out of my life. The trials are copious, but no matter, and however harmlessly and unintentionally — these pockets are full and I can’t seem to walk straight.
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