Most wheat pennies aren’t worth much money,
but the ones I still find I keep in my jewelry box.
They were a currency between my dad and me.
We’d share how we found them on sidewalks
or in change, the pleasure of unexpected treasure.
He gave me boxes of coins before he died. 
At the funeral, I said to others, I’m happy for him,
because grieving I forgot how to talk. That’s not him,
I said to my sister by his casket. He’s with his friends,
she replied. How could I disagree?
I can’t distinguish between wheat pennies and grace,
yet I know the currency of trust,
the delight of undeserved reward.