Tiffani Williamson
The Life of a Coin
I’ve heard their debates. Sure, the booming voices are muffled by thick layers of cotton and polyester, and the shining silver broads are constantly wrestling for the tightest nook, ching-ing and bickering, but I’ve heard them, nonetheless. They say “what’s the point?” I cost more than I’m worth, and “they’re” tossing away millions of dollars a year. I haven’t quite figured or who “they” are, or where they are, but they must care about me. Why else would they bother? I’ve got to be important somehow.
I used to glimmer like all the other coins; I was immaculate, smiling and brilliant. Strangers would lift me off a dirty street and speak of luck before tucking me away in their chest pocket, where I could feel their hearts beating vigorously against my russet cheek. Years later, my full copper hair has fallen flat and I’m slowly fading to a dingy dung green. I find myself among weak and limber dryer sheets and emptied thoughtlessly on a cluttered desk, soon to be forgotten.
Today, I’m thrilled to feel the bright sun shining on my drooping facade. Sparkles of fluttering jade dance above me and a warm breeze sweeps over my face; a child calls out in the distance.
The hollers trailed closer and a warm touch brushed my jaw. “Heads up mommy!” eagerly exclaimed a round faced boy with glistening gold hair as he smiled down on me. A coffee colored woman came up behind him, but I hadn’t paid much attention to her.
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