At the Crossing

I decided to forego my heavy duty back pack this morning and instead grabbed a string bag to take with me to an all-day training. I have fondness for these lightweight sacks and the hands-free carrying convenience they offer, and so I have quite a collection of them.

The bag I chose this morning has the added feature of an outside zip-pocket which is a good place for keys and a wallet. I hadn't used it since late last summer, and uncinching the drawstring, I peered inside. There was some hand-sanitizer, a grocery list (peaches, blackberries, tomatoes, and corn), and four flattened pennies, that I had placed in my bag in Rochester, MN when my mom was a patient at the Mayo Clinic.

Walking over the tracks every day on my way from our rented condo to the hospital, the twin notions of transformation and survival prompted me to lay a line of pennies along the rail just past where it crossed my path.  At first, I wanted to give a flattened penny each to my mother, my brother, my sister, and me to remind us of our strength even under the enormous weight of this ordeal, so every time I crossed those tracks, I checked the coins.

Despite the fact that I heard and saw trains running by there several times each day, whenever I passed by the coins remained untouched. At first, I was annoyed. As the days went by, though, it began to seem miraculous, but I cautioned myself from reading too much into it. Still, I thought that if I could scoop them up, undamaged, on our last day in town, it could only be a good sign.

The morning my mother was going to be discharged, I walked down to the hospital one more time. There in the gravel that lined the railroad tracks I found four crushed pennies. With a catch in my throat, I tossed them in my string bag and kept going.

And that's where they stayed, until today. I laid them in my palm and remembered my hope and disappointment. Then I closed my fingers and jingled them lightly together, listening to the quiet music of four ruined coins, emblems of the inevitable.