Pennies
Macy Huston Adams
The cushion extended across
red pickup, rusted in glory.
My legs swung from its elevation,
too short to touch pilled floors.
It moaned as we drove,
each bump lifting me into the air.
We could take on the world—
with brazen perception, we did.
Essential mission at hand:
find a gift for Mom.
I was blissfully unaware of our financial
predicament. Elusive thrift sign summoned.
Limitless possibility racks were stacked:
Snow globes, bike parts, underwear baskets,
faux flowers, sticky candles, held together
by a structurally sound layer of dust and dirt.
Treasure amid gold, young eyes grew wide.
Foot on shelf, reaching to grasp a metallic
set of luxury. Acquired. Accomplished.
Childlike hopping and pleading led to
an early unboxing. Out of the bag,
she pulled three foil disposable baking pans.
Speechless.
I knew they were perfect, her distaste
for cleaning, passion for baking assured me.
Through the wall, through the night,
I listened to her cry.