Not too long ago, it finally rained. The duration was equal to the amount of time it took for me to realize what was happening. I quickly stepped outside my office and looked at the sidewalk as it turned from grey to the color of a penny — an entire pavement of pennies.
As cool droplets caught in my hair, the heat from the concrete rose over my leather heels and onto my ankles. Familiarity washed over me from head to toe, yet I could not unlock the memory. I would have to wait until the next day for the memory to reveal itself.
The following afternoon, I got into my car, started the ignition, and began folding my sunshade. I immediately regretted wearing a skirt. Summertime in Texas is always hot, but this year has proven that having tinted car windows and a large sunshade can only do so much. The underside of my thighs burned against the leather seat. I hurried to twist, fold, and tuck the sunshade away, but in my haste, I knocked the miniature ceramic planter hanging from my rearview mirror. I heard the little pot bang against my windshield, and for a moment, I froze. I listened for the sound of broken porcelain. Thankfully, it had not cracked. Instead, it swung from side to side like a hypnotic pendulum. And as the air conditioning blasted against my face and the leather continued to redden my legs, I escaped to the place I was trying to recall the day before.
As a child, Mom often took my brother and me to the community pool to blow off some summer energy. Mom had a knack for being able to read a book while simultaneously keeping a keen eye on me. Even though I was in a hurry, I knew never to run around the outside of the pool. Growing up, I mastered “the fast walk” because I knew that if I ran, I would soon be walking back to the car, cutting my afternoon fun short.
Midway through our time at the pool, Mom would give my big brother a few dollars for him to take me to the concession stand. I cannot remember what we ordered, but I do recall this was the only time I would see my brother on pool days. As soon as he had returned me within view of Mom, he would disappear to his group of friends. They hung out at the deep end (probably so their little sisters wouldn’t follow in tow).
I would eat my snack with my friends poolside, legs dangling in the cold water. We would take turns doing handstands underwater until we were all finished eating and could resume having tea parties sitting at the bottom of the shallow end.
I was usually the first person to finish with the snack because it was painful for me to sit too long on the side of the pool. I have very pale and sensitive skin. Even though the concrete was wet, it burned my skin. Goosebumps would cover my arms from the mix of cold upon my feet and heat upon my thighs. The humidity, chlorine, perfumes, hairsprays, and the stickiness of candy and sunscreen all collided to make an olfactory memory. The community pool smelled of pennies.
Going back in thought to the day before, watching the sidewalk become flooded with pennies of rain I had felt as if I existed in two places at once. Now, the mystery was resolved. I was experiencing two timeframes in one moment: me at around 10 years old and me… well, just old. The moment lasted as brief as the rain, but it was real just the same.
And now, sitting in my vehicle, I notice the ceramic planter hanging from my rearview mirror has stopped swinging, bringing up another memory. Interesting how we surround ourselves with things that hold us and free us simultaneously — like my mother holding me with her stare at the pool so I could be free to have fun without worry. And this planter — a little gift that was never intended for me. Yet, here I am, relieved that it is not broken.
Many years ago, I was so excited to find this cream-colored, tiny planter that had a cute, artificial succulent inside of it. I was drawn to it for two reasons: it was for sale in one of my daughter’s favorite stores and had a message painted on it that I never wanted her to forget. These mini planters came in different sizes and colors and had varying sayings to choose from. I noticed a group of teenagers each picking one for their vehicle. I waited until they left to be able to take my time, finding the perfect one for my daughter. Having gotten her license recently, I knew she would love this gift.
I was wrong.
My daughter was excited to see the gift bag from the familiar store. Wearing a big smile, she thanked me even before removing the tissue paper. The smile faded upon seeing the present. “What is it?” she asked.
I explained that it was a decorative affirmation for her to hang from her rearview mirror… something fun and happy to remind her how much I love her. Her brows furrowed. “Thanks, Mom, but this looks more like something you would have.”
She took the bag and left me the gift.
I know she didn’t mean to be harsh, but I felt every one of her words and actions like razors. The following morning, I took the mini planter and hung it in my rearview mirror. Three cars later, I have a grown, brilliant daughter off at college and the same ceramic trinket hanging from my rearview mirror. Looking at it now, I read the painted affirmation aloud: You are so loved. The message means something different because it was intended for someone else. However, throughout the years, I have made this message for me — a reminder to me.
Interesting how we surround ourselves with things that hold us and free us simultaneously — like this planter that still burns a little with disappointment while also freeing me to accept the affirmation for myself. To think that I was concerned that I may have broken it tells me that I have truly made it my own; its value is far more significant than its cost or size.
The old saying, “A penny for your thoughts,” is often answered with memories, some good and some we wish would have been better. Even still, we continue to collect an entire lifetime of pennies: memories that, in their own way, offer us learning, suffering, healing, and soaring.
May our thoughts fall gently upon our yesterdays as we continue to journey upon the road, collecting priceless pennies along the way.
Tiffany Kaye Chartier
SGLY, dear reader.
(Smile, God Loves You.)
Tiffany Kaye Chartier, Author 