Sad truth, sadder memory |
Two crumpled dollar bills, and $1.91 in change. That's all I had, filling the pockets of my tattered and patched Salvation Army jeans. I was on Exchange Street in Rumford, on my thirteenth birthday with my daddy to sell vegetables at the farmer's market. I wanted to wander the stores in town instead. "Keep an eye on the truck, I am going to the cop shop to take a leak." Daddy wandered off, I took a slow look around, then peered into the pocket of the apron he kept the vegetable money in. I wonder if dad would miss a few dollars and some change? If I had five bucks, I would spend it on Beechnut and bottles of Pepsi, the way the Hallisey boys do. "Get your hand out of that damned money and start packing the truck! Did you steal any of it?" "No dad." "Let me see your pockets." Broken pen knife, comb, and my meager pile of savings. "You stole this!" "No daddy." "Give it to me." I swear I won't cry again. My lower lip trembles and my eyes fill like always. "Don't whine you little thief, just give me that money." Two crumpled dollar bills, and $1.91 in change, saved for months, filled less space than the hole in my heart, torn open by not being trusted. It was another night going to bed without dinner. |