Heads
April 3rd, 2021
Starring: Linnea (female, mid 20’s)
A cemetery. Linnea (in black, shouldering a handbag), stands at a grave plot. There’s no headstone yet, just firmly packed with fresh dirt:
LINNEA
2005. My brother wanted outdoor laser tag for his 13th birthday party. Our house didn’t have a good lawn for it, so we hosted it on Grandma and Grandpa’s. Per laser tag company policy, you had to be ten to operate a plastic gun, so I was banned. As the little sister, I wasn’t wanted anyway.
I snuck inside during the second game. I needed to pee, and wanted more lemonade.
I had never been alone in my grandparents’ house before. That felt exciting, for some reason. For as much time as I’d spent there, unexplored corners remained. Most notably Grandpa’s study, which had its door wide-open that day.
I expected to find a secret inside, something to explain why I’d never been let in. At age eight, what do you really know about Grandpa other than he’s Grandpa? Anything felt possible.
The truth was boring: A desk of framed family photos, a sofa, stacks of medical journals. No purple hearts, CIA badges, or superhero outfits. Grandpa was only Grandpa.
He caught me with my hand in the corner file cabinet, trying to make sure. I guess he wanted some lemonade too.
He loved me. Badly.
Of course he loved everyone but...I was the baby. He grew up with all boys, he had raised all boys, and I was the lone granddaughter. It wasn’t favoritism. More like...protection. He showed it in little ways; an extra five bucks, the last slice of pie, a subtle nudge to where the Easter eggs were hiding. No matter what, he looked out for me.
But my trespassing tested him. I remember his mouth twisting, searching for the right reaction. His lips settled into a smile as he rocket-boosted me onto the sofa. Then, from the depths of the bottom cabinet…
Linnea reaches into her handbag, taking out an old (mid 2000’s) iPod nano case. From it, she removes a coin, holding it delicately between her fingers:
An 1877 Seated Liberty Twenty-cent.
He told me the whole history. How it was a failed coin the government discontinued. How his grandma ran back into her burning house to save hers. How she passed it to his mother, who taped it to the ceiling above her bed. How she passed it to him, with no daughters to pass to. And how it was mine now. So long as I “never told, never sold.”
We never mentioned it again.
It was small. Literally, so tiny.
But it made me feel big. Like I had purpose. Worth. A reason to keep my head up.
It still does. No less today.
…
I’d never sell. But now he’s gone, I finally brought myself to look.
There’s nothing to find. 1876, sure, 1878, a few, but 1877? This is it. I’ve searched high and low, but there’s no other like this out there.
Beyond rare. One of a kind.
Just like him.