Numismatica

It was ugly and yet still sparkled along the edge just beneath Lincoln's chest. He had nearly passed it before lurching to a halt. His feet moved so much slower these days yet his mind was still sharp enough to know a good thing when he saw it, even covered over with wear and stain, grit and scars. It looked well-traveled. He bent down and slipped his fingernail beneath its slick, familiar face, pressed it beneath his thumb, and picked it up. He leaned close to examine it, found he needed his lenses, and removed them from his coat pocket.

A gash struck out across the last two numerals, but it was at least from this decade. That surprised him. Caked as it was in smudges and blemishes, it seemed older; from his time, maybe. Although, it might have only been the reverie he experienced, always, standing near that place. He knew where he was, knew the location well. He knew what was behind him and didn't need to look. He desired to regard the penny which had been lying across his path only a moment before. He imagined the coin’s journey until it found this street and fell amongst these objects in front of him— between the parking meter, newspaper dispenser, telephone pole, and garbage can.

With eyes closed, he saw the street as if looking through the window behind him. He walked past this cafe every afternoon. He didn't need to look at it yet he still needed to be there. Every day. This grizzled penny was a token for his walk today. A bounteous, ubiquitous gift waiting to be found. Hash marks crossed the darkened surface. It was cold to his touch. He flipped it over and rubbed his thumb across the Lincoln Memorial. Each wound caught the excitement of his skin. Each stain pleased his eyes. So much life in this little one. How much living for its youth! He wanted it to be a gift from her; he decided that it was. He continued walking and slipped the coin into his pocket. It fell away into the soft recess; may as well have dropped into the vacuum of his memories. Except it was more like a stream. He lifted his head, watched the city, and whistled.

The dress appeared to him in his trance. How he'd passed it every day for a month before laying down twenty dollars when that was still a week's pay. How every day for a year he'd looked at the gown, traced his thumb across its surface, and closed it up again in his bureau drawer. Intentional forgetting in pursuit of hope, a longing for a future condition over which he had little agency. And when, after a year, she still smiled to see him afternoons from that cafe window for tea, he knew he'd watch her dance in his arms wearing that dress. That night he presented it to her wrapped in tissue paper and string. Two thousand pennies in fluid chiffon and silk.

Her qualities whirled in his memory while his feet shuffled across the spotted, worn sidewalk. His hand dipped into his pants pocket and his fingers found the copper. A zoetrope of her floating form rubbed out through his thumb across the numismatic profile. Even inside the dark void, its luster brightened and the color flushed again beneath his touch. An empty cafe table watched at his back, the daily opened across the obituaries, and a glass reflection held what was there only for him. Every day it was the same. It was another chance for remembrance.