I was only a few days old when I left the hospital in Peterborough with my adoptive parents. Too young to know, or to remember; yet, part of me never forgot. There is a line from a play, Perfect Pie by Judith Thompson, that has always spoken volumes to me, “I will not forget you. You are carved in the palm of my hand.” My hand, which I now recognize is very much like my birth mother’s.
Dimes lay in my path over the month leading up to Christmas. Those that believe in omens say that dimes are a message from the beyond, that when you stumble across them you should pick them up, take note of the year, as it is the year that contains the message. I teach high school. Students drop change all the time, too cool to stoop for a mere ten cents, too focused on posting to Instagram to notice the goldmine they leave in their wake.
Over that month, a multitude of dimes crossed my path in odd places; just beside the wheel of my car glinting in the late fall sun, two outside my class room door, one on my walk to pick the kids up from daycare, and so on. Those that I found got tossed into a little glass jar on my desk. As they clinked against the glass, I made a comment to my friend about my inordinate amount of ten cent pieces, no nickels or quarters, just dime after dime. My friend, who believes in such omens, was convinced I was ignoring a message. Curious, I dumped out my little jar and looked at the years. The majority were 2006 and 2013. Once I’d taken notice of the years, which meant nothing significant to me, the dime parade stopped as I continued my march on towards Christmas break.
100