A New and Shiny Nickel
The other day, Jena chastised her mother for not seeing where she was going. Maria had stooped down to pick up a stray nickel and an inattentive biker almost ran her over. The man swerved, fell, and scraped his shin. He apologized, of course. He was sorry about how he was not seeing where he was going and sorry about how he shouldn't even be on the sidewalk in the first place.
But Jena blamed her mother.
"You're always doing this. And over what? A stupid nickel!"
She was mad for days.
Maria is in her kitchen. Doing dishes. It's cooler now, after the afternoon baking. The house never keeps heat. It faces north. She bought it ten years ago, a little before her husband retired. Harold never had the mind for money, and when he died, she kept up on the little financial things.
It gets chilly in the winter, but Maria enjoys the cold. When summertime comes, the house stays cool. Saves on air conditioning, she tells her daughter. Even though she never did have an unit installed.
She turns back now to several days ago. She seldom does. She always taught her daughter to keep her mind on the things in front of her. Maria always did. But, now, it's hard. When a person gets old, everything seems linked. Things before surge ahead into the here-and-now and streak forward into the hereafter.
But she trains her mind to the task at hand with just a sideways peek behind her.
What does she know? She thought, all the while washing grease off the plate. Jena brought up the incident again during lunch. But she is a good daughter, about to bring Maria a grandson.
The baking pan is last. She scraps the black off with steel wool.
In her mind, Maria turns back to that nickel. Past the curb. On the grass. It glared off all the sunlight given to it. Off for the whole world. Maria doesn't understand how only her fading eyes saw the shine. She had stooped down to lift it up into the air and it loomed over her until it covered up all else from her sight. Flickering as it rose.
Then she heard a crash and Jena’s yelling. Maria quickly stuffed it into her cracked leather purse.
Nobody knows anymore.
The last three days, the nickel jangled against her house key, against the clothed interior of the purse. The jingle reminds her of years ago, when she was young. The same jingle that sang of all the wealth she had in this world. Now, she is drying fine bone china from her son-in-law, alone, in a house built to raise a family.
She turns her mind again, away from these things, back to the dishes at hand.