The first time I held a golden coin in my palm,
I was digging for treasures in a dusty attic.
My grandmother had recently passed
and her house was on 1-800-GOT-JUNK’s
weekend route.
In the corner stood an ornate chest,
a trunk, short and wide: my family’s dimensions.
The trunk held nylons, faux pearls, and worn denim.
Grandmother had few secrets, but I found one of them.
In the pocket of a pair of old Levi’s, there was a coin
with a name, date, and origin worn past recognition.
I’ve kept it, thinking it might be worth something.
After the truck took what no one claimed, I did more digging.
Beneath a microscope, the coin’s name, date, and origin
remained a mystery. I learned that American currency
generally reserves its profiles for the dead. No golden goose
has yet survived the press. Washington reportedly refused
his own face on money: too much like a monarchy.
Spencer Clark did not share his reluctance.
The story goes that in 1866 he placed
his living face where another Clark’s
was meant to go. Congress responded
by prohibiting the portrait or likeness
of any living person. Too bad ambiguity
outlived Clark’s defiant personality.
As Grandmother would say, nonsense
and mischief belong in dirty handkerchiefs,
not the Treasury or a treasure chest.
I revisit the coin and admire how little it asks to be known.
My grandmother used to talk of an embarrassment of riches.
We were never rich; I understood only the embarrassment.
Years later, holding her coin beneath a lamp,
I finally understood the other half.
On my screen, a new golden dollar entered circulation.
This new coin has no trouble telling us who it is.
A golden goose in a suit. An eagle on the reverse.
The birds never meet. LIBERTY curves above one.
The other carries E PLURIBUS UNUM in its mouth.
The Mint calls the coin golden.
Let the record show there is no gold.
My grandmother’s coin has kept its metals to itself.
The Mint lists his composition: copper, zinc, manganese, nickel.
Mine will not say where it came from.
His came from Philadelphia without a mark to prove it.
One has forgotten.
One has been constructed.
Mine lay alone in a pocket.
His comes with nine million duplicates.
Mine cost an afternoon
and a truck of stuff no one wished to circulate.
His costs two dollars and forty-four cents
for every single dollar purchased.
When a retired attorney asked the court to stop the new coin,
the court asked what harm he would suffer personally.
Nine million faces were not personal enough.
Some nights the old coin resembles my grandmother.
Legally, this would be permissible.
Tonight, beneath the lamp, my grandmother disappears.
For a moment, the face is mine. I turn it over.
Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.
