laurel garver
The Lost
Coin
My quarter
pings
in the
coin-filled
guitar case.
A chill
streaks
up my spine.
What have I
done?
The tiny
Peruvian dude
goes on
jamming
intricate
Andean riffs
on “White
Christmas,”
notes bright
as the
pattern
on his
poncho.
I nod along
with the
song,
eyes glued to
those
shiny coins,
my last
treasure
among them.
I clench a
fist
in my pocket
to still my
fingers
that itch to
twirl the coin
over and
under,
to stroke the
tiny tree
on the tails
side,
its spreading
branches
rubbed pink
in places.
“Hold on to
it,”
Dad had said,
“So you
always know
where to find
me.”
Weeks I
searched
For secret
messages
In the raised
letters:
CONNECTICUT.
Simple, silly
quarter
Dad had
“magically” pulled
from my ear
before he
shouldered
his camera
bag,
headed out:
His first
business trip
in sixteen
years.
And his last.
The song’s
final chord
shivers in
the cool air,
shimmery as
the sea
of coins
reflecting
holiday
lights.
Peruvian dude
glares,
slings his
guitar
over his back
and bends to
snap
his case
closed.
I crouch
beside him,
hands clasped
to my chest
like Mary
in a
crucifixion picture,
and beg to
exchange
his shiny
coins
for my wad of
bills.
“I no make
change,”
he mutters
and
trippingly
trots down
subway steps.
Before I can
follow,
A hand clasps
mine.
Grandpa says,
“Come, love.”
And pulls me
into an
almost hug
that smells
of moss
and
peppermint
and sheep
that
push spotted
faces
through fence
rails
to bleat at
you.
I cast a long
look behind us,
where more of
Dad has been lost.
Gone
underground.
Passing faces
blur
like a soggy
watercolor.
Laurel
Garver writes poetry and young adult fiction and edit a scholarly journal in
Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in
Flashquake,
Motley Press,
Poetry Forum,
About Such Things
and is forthcoming in
Rubber Lemon. An indie film enthusiast and incurable anglophile,
Laurel blogs at
http://laurelgarver.blogspot.com.