I hold it in my hand allowing its weight to sink in; it easily makes a home within the creases and lines of my palm. I love how natural it feels, as if it was destined to find its way to the center of my right hand amidst the rough blisters and the loose skin that snuggly hugs the side of the coin. It isn’t perfect. That’s part of the reason why I love it, because perfection is unattainable. I like to hold it in my hand closely observing every dip, indentation, and notch that had been made within its once smooth surface. My mind wanders, thinking up fantastical stories on how these came to fruition.
The coin now nearly one hundred and four years old, still has a bit of its original luster. On one side lies the proud figure of a Native American chief his prominent cheek bone appears to jut out as his eyes sink in providing him with a wise appearance. He is ornamented with a full-fledged head dress, but I like to think that he was a simple man, if he was real at all; I assumed he was a strong yet kind leader. Although the coin is old I can still make out the creases by his eyes showing compassion. On the flipside lies the golden feathered eagle, standing tall, proudly representing America. Encasing the coin is a small golden frame, surrounding it like tendrils of flame glinting in the light, not taking away from the coin, but adding to it, completing it. A chain connects to the tiny frame, a tiny braid wrapping completely around to a small clasp that perfectly clips together with a snap.
I remember the first time I heard that satisfying snap, the slippery feeling of the chain as it grazed against every nerve ending on my skin the sensation snaking down to the small yet substantially weighted coin that rested heavily in the nook at the base of my neck. In that moment I was so proud. I turn around looking into the eyes of my Grandfather who had a similar expression on his face; his eyes twinkled with pride, bestowing his youngest granddaughter with his most prized possession. It was a tradition in my family my mother and sister already had received theirs years ago tucking it away in some safe place. I had highly anticipated this moment, because this moment meant I had accomplished something that earned the respect of my elders. Just like the chief on the coin my grandfather had the same profound cheekbones and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“Here Lizbeth.” He said dropping the coin into my hand giving a single nod, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth, but not quite materializing. His compassion and love was a silent kind, a man of few words. Although his mouth was closed his face was like a book each wrinkle showing you what you needed to know.
“It’s a coin, Elizabeth. Your Grandpa has been so proud of you with all your sports, and switching to Petoskey.” My grandma rambled on unnecessarily. She always was his words, but in this moment words weren’t needed. I nodded in acknowledgment. I thought to myself, I had finally made him proud, and that was what the coin was all about.
A five dollar Native American Coin is all it is; to collectors it is worth thousands, while to me it is worth more than that. It represents tradition, family, and pride, something that is more valuable than pure gold.
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