A Reflection on my Coin Collection

It must be sad for a nation to give up its coin, a loss comparable only to a mother parting with her child. No, it has not died, but like a youth called to leave home, it has gone on its way and the land has ceased to mother it, hoping only that she has been fertile enough to provide sufficience to last the duration of its journey. And, slowly, the coin becomes old and fades away; its use becomes limited, and eventually it is sent to retire, to collect, and to die, perhaps with its remains to be found years later and for someone to look at it and know its mother, wonder what she looked like in the fall when the birds began to soar through the fading evening sky. They'll know its brothers: the little old man buying newspaper-wrapped fish in the rainy market, the homosexual punk using her-his hands to dial a call in the phonebooth on a busy city street, the young widow and her shawled sisters begging outside a church. The motherland smiles, watching the excitement of a new coin's birth, watching a value and new sense of of pride crown, and again she forgets the pain and sorrows as she smiles into its new, shining face.