At the bottom of the wishing well lie hundreds of pennies, some green with age and others still that shiny brown. Fiona stops to glance down at them through the clear water - each one a heartfelt wish or prayer. Each one represented pain and hope. She dug a hand into her pocket and pulled out a tuppence, the smallest change she had and tossed it in, watching it sink, joining the others. "This is how we are," she mused, "all of us needing hope, even if it's just pennies in a well."
I cannot mourn the copper statue in my yard loosing its shine, it can no more resist aging than can I. With each passing year it has dulled, and I confess I thought of throwing it out. But then in recent years it has begun to oxidize and I find the green-blue bewitching, enchanting. So now with each passing year it becomes more beautiful; I hope that is what I do too. Not physically of course, let's face it, it's mostly down hill from twenty and the slope only gets steeper from forty. No, I hope to become kinder, wiser, more true to the person my inner child always asked me to be. Perhaps as the wrinkles deepen over my face so will the positive effect of my life on others. I want to slide into middle age with grace, not with an almighty splurging tantrum. But for now I will just sit with my tea and watch the birds, the statue and the joyful growing of the spring plants in the yard.
The coin in my palm is light and quite old. It must be, we haven't used physical money for so long that it takes some explaining to the kids what it is. This one is copper and through the striking green that spreads over the surface I can make out "In God We Trust." I used to like that about the old money. It might not have been gold but at least it was something tangible. I take the old hanky from my pocket I usually keep for wiping by glasses and wrap it up, tucking it in my pocket. I chuckle to remember an old rhyme; "Find a penny, pick it up, and all day have good luck." I'll keep this one safe, no selling it, it's a keeper.
The copper of the auditorium dome is like a beach awash with turquoise waves. It spreads over the imperfect surface, a blemish that only adds to the beauty. In time the roof will only be green and perhaps we'll forget the copper underneath. I'm sure it will be beautiful then, perhaps even more so, but this dome has greeted me every day on my way to buy the morning paper for nearly thirty years and I love it.
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