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center for writing | minnesota writing project | mwp invitational summer institute | institute fellows 2017

Jodi Baker

©2017

Dad’s Coins #1

Each morning
the first thing he did
was
fill his pockets
from the nightstand
where
everything waited
from the night before.
Keys.
Pocketknife.
White handkerchief.
Nail clippers.
Coins.

This day – one of his last,
he leans.
Grips the edge of the dresser.
I hover
inching the wheelchair closer
anticipating
where his curved back
might land
should his legs give out
again.
He rearranges his water glass, used tissues, denture case, mouth drops.
Finally
he
sits.
Hand open.
His owl eyes stare at the
3 nickels
3 dimes
1 quarter.
“I’m missing two quarters.”

I squeeze onto the floor between
the bed,
dresser,
and wheelchair.
Press my face against sweat-soaked sheets.
Pat the carpet.
“Here, Dad.”

I add one quarter to his
outstretched hand.
His bewildered face
reveals
his lack of control.

I move the doily on the nightstand.
Shuffle everything
he just shuffled.
Get on my hands and knees again.
Rake the carpet with my fingers
willing the damn thing
to
show
up.
One final sweep toward the window.
“Here it is!”
I hold up the second quarter
as if we found Willy Wonka’s winning ticket.

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”
His speech
is slow
and deliberate
like he’s underwater.

With his pockets full
all is right
with the world.
And we wheel off to the
living
room.


Dad’s Coins #2

When it got too hard
to zip up boot cut jeans
and fasten
heavy
western belt buckles
he
wore sweatpants.

Beyond their lack
of dignity,
the saggy pockets
were useless.
His
3 nickels
3 dimes
3 quarters
kept spilling on the floor.

“I’m missing a dime”
he said one morning.
“How do you know?”
my mom asked.

A storyteller
who repeated his stories
over and
over,
my dad only had time
to tell this tale
once.

Decades ago
when he worked downtown
at the ad agency
every day
he put
3 nickels
3 dimes
3 quarters
in the pocket of his suit pants.
Meter money.

I went to my purse,
emptied the suede pouch
of the lavender
that was supposed to
calm
my sadness.
His coins
fit
perfectly.
We tied the leather cord.

A new habit
beginning
even at
the end,
he moved through
his last days
with nine coins
intact
in his
pocket.