When my mother was a little girl.
The school asked—
Bring what you can.
A penny. A nickel. A dollar if you were lucky.
Each week, the children lined up.
Coins warm from their hands.
Dropped one by one into a small box.
At the end of the week,
The teacher walked to the bank.
Opened accounts.
One for each child.
The money grew slowly.
Week by week.
Year by year.
When her account reached $25,
The school used it—
Bought a war bond in her name.
She kept it.
Tucked it away.
Forgot, maybe. Or just waited.
Years later—
Married now.
Young. Living small.
She walked into an antique shop.
There it was.
A round oak dining table.
Not fancy. Just right.
She went to the post office.
Took the bond.
Cashed it. Fifty dollars.
Came home with the table.
Solid. Heavy. Meant to last.
We ate at that table all through my childhood.
Birthdays. Homework. Long talks.
Spilled milk. Crumbs in the cracks.
One day,
My cousin needed a table.
She lent it.
Because that’s what she does-
Hold on gently. Share freely.
I wish I had a photo.
Maybe I do, somewhere.
But I’m writing it down now—
So I don’t forget.
So I can tell it right.
To my grandchildren, someday.
How a little girl saved a nickel.
And one day,
We all sat around it—
And called it home.
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