Pennies From Heaven

Dear Grandpa,

You’ve been gone for fourteen years. But last week, I got a present from you. One of your last requests was that all the pocket change you saved, day after day, be split evenly amongst the ten of us grandkids.  It was a time-intensive labor of love that your daughter undertook. Last week, I got my jar of coins. Looking at that jar and thinking about the coins inside—knowing they had been touched by you and saved for us—was profoundly moving. You’ve been on my mind ever since.

Almost all of the memories I have of you are in summer. Mom and Dad would drop us kids off at your house for a week, and during the day, Adam and I were free to explore the little town you lived in, as long as we were home for supper when the whistle blew at six. Other times, Adam and I went with you on errands. One time when we were helping you collect cans to be recycled, I kicked at a penny in the dirt. You stopped abruptly and told me to pick it up. Pennies, you explained, were just as important as coins with higher value—they all added up. I stared at the penny in my hand and felt terrible remorse for every penny I had ever overlooked.

My favorite times with you were at bedtime, when you told us stories about growing up in a time of buggies and sleigh bells and one-room schoolhouses. You told us that you were born on the exact same day and year as Frank Sinatra. And you always ended with “Golden Windows,” a story about a house that was transformed every night at sunset when the light that reflected from the windows made them look like gold.

I also loved watching “Wheel of Fortune” with you. You and I solved the puzzles together—until one night, when I realized I knew the answer before you did. I pretended I didn’t. When the show was over, you sat down with me at the dining room table, folded a newspaper so that the crossword puzzle showed, and slid it across the table to me. With a pen. You told me to do it, and under your watchful eye, I did. When I was finished, you looked it over, then said, “Did you know the answers on ‘Wheel of Fortune’ tonight?” I nodded, unsure if I was in trouble. You pointed to the crossword puzzle and said, “You just did that puzzle by yourself. In ink.” Still unsure, I waited. “Runt,” you said, looking at me intently, “Don’t cheat yourself. If you know something, don’t pretend you don’t.” You got up from the table, then turned and asked, “How old are you?” I told you I was eight. “You’ll be all right, runt,” you said.

In the past several years, it’s been difficult for me to think of you. The last years of your life were heartbreaking—you spent them at the nursing home with Grandma, losing more and more of her every day to Alzheimer’s. When you died, I cried for myself but was relieved for you, that your suffering was over.

I didn’t go to your funeral, Grandpa. I’m so ashamed to say that. And so ashamed for the reason—I was too lost in addiction to pay my last respects to you. When Grandma died six weeks after you, I was in the hospital. I didn’t go to her funeral, either. I’m so sorry, Grandpa. I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to tell you goodbye when the rest of your family did. And I’m sorry that I still haven’t been to your gravesite. When I saw pictures of your headstone, I was so overcome with shame that I didn’t feel I deserved to be there.

That shame has faded as I’ve looked at the jar of coins you left me. I’ve thought about what you said about not cheating myself and realized that I was doing that very thing by allowing my shame to block you from my memories. Now, instead of focusing on your death, I’ve been thinking about your life—about the man you were and the lessons you taught me. I think about the way you made me feel special, even though there were ten of us grandkids. I think about how you saw value in me long before I saw it in myself. And I want you to know: I have a whole shelf of finished New York Times crossword books. I do at least one every day, sometimes in ink. I pick up pennies and remember that every coin has value, and even the runts of the litter are worth something. And I’m not just listening to stories now, Grandpa. I’m writing them.

You told me when I was eight that I’d be all right. I wasn’t, for many years. But I’m all right now. And when I do visit your grave, I’m going to leave a few pennies there. Maybe when the next grandchild or family member visits, they’ll pick them up, and the chain you began will continue.

With gratitude, my deepest respect, and so much love,

Renee