THE PIGGY BANK

There was an array of toys in the children's room. At the very top of the wardrobe, the piggy bank took pride of place, shaped as a clay pig, complete with a coin slot cleverly carved into its back. It had already accumulated two large coins and numerous small change.

The piggy bank was so packed with money that it could no longer jingle within its belly, which was essentially the pinnacle of success for a piggy bank. It perched high on top of the wardrobe, overlooking the toys below in the room. With the fortune it held, it could have easily bought them all, and it took great pride in knowing this.

Others were aware of it too, even though they didn't openly discuss it; they had other topics of conversation. The dresser drawer was slightly ajar, and a slightly worn-out doll with a patched-up neck was peeking outside.

"I suggest we play 'grown-ups.' It will be entertaining!" she proclaimed.

Instantly, a commotion ensued, with even the framed pictures turning their back to the wall (although they knew they had a reverse side, this wasn't a protest). It was in the middle of the night, with the moonlight streaming through the window providing free illumination.

The game was about to begin, and all were invited, including the dollhouse car, although it was considered part of the "common toys."

"Each one has their unique role," she said, "not everyone can be of noble birth; there must be some who work."

The piggy bank alone received a written invitation. They feared that, placed so high up, it might not hear an oral invitation. It considered itself too important to provide a response and chose not to attend. If it wanted to join the game, it would do so from its lofty perch, and the others would make accommodations. So they did.

The little puppet theater was set up so that it could be viewed head-on. First, there was to be a comedy, followed by tea, and then intellectual exercises. But they began immediately with the latter.

The rocking horse spoke of training and thoroughbreds, the doll carriage of railways and steam engines. It always related back to its specialty. The clock talked politics - tick-tock - it knew what time it had struck, but critics claimed it wasn't particularly accurate.

The cane stood upright, proud of its metal tip and silver handle; two embroidered cushions lay on the sofa, lovely but rather dull. The play was set to start.

Everyone was seated, eagerly awaiting. They were asked to applaud, snap their fingers, or grumble based on their satisfaction or dissatisfaction. The whip stated it never snapped for the elderly, only for the young and spirited.

"I burst for everyone," declared the firecracker.

"Being here or elsewhere...," remarked the spittoon. And that was the general consensus on playing "grown-ups." The play was not particularly remarkable, but the acting was superb.

The actors always presented their painted side to the audience, as they were designed to be seen from the front, not the back. They played magnificently, often spilling out of the theater because their strings were too long, making them even more remarkable.

The mended doll was so moved that she came apart, and the piggy bank, overwhelmed in its own way, decided to do something for one of the actors, perhaps to include them in its will, to rest beside it in a grand memorial when the time came.

All were delighted, and they skipped the tea to focus on intellectual games. They called it "playing grown-ups," and it was all in good fun, as it was just a game. Each one thought only of themselves, and also, of course, what the piggy bank might think, as it pondered beyond the others, considering its will and burial plans. When would the time come? Always sooner than expected...

Crash! It fell from the wardrobe. It lay on the floor in a thousand pieces, coins dancing and bouncing around the room, with the smallest ones tinkling and the larger ones rolling, especially the silver dollar that had longed to see the world. It went, of course, and all the pieces went, but the piggy bank's remnants ended up in the trash.

The next day, a new piggy bank in glazed clay sat atop the wardrobe. It didn't contain a single coin, and there was no jingling within. In this regard, it resembled its predecessor. It was merely a fresh beginning, and for us, this is where the tale concludes.