Anyone who has spent time at the Holmes house knows about the coins.

They appear on the floor, in doorways, and on steps.  I can’t say for sure who sends them — a divine entity, angels, humans who have passed from this life to some other.  They appear at random, unexpected times.  I take them for granted after all these years.  I stoop to retrieve them, toss them in a jug, continue with my day.  Quarters occasionally appear on the floor near the shelf where I keep a photo of my favorite curmudgeon.  I thank him — sometimes outloud — and put those in a little china bowl that came from my in-laws’ home.

Say I’m crazy. Say the coins spill from my own pocketbook.  I’m good with that.  I don’t think so, but if you need to believe I’m careless rather than haunted or guarded by spirits, that’s fine by me.

This morning, I spied a penny in the middle of the floor in the doorway between the dining room and the living room.  It could not possibly have been there yesterday.   I passed through that same spot a hundred times on Saturday.  I carried tools and watering jugs, shuffling with the strain of exertion.  The irony of finding a penny today of all days hits me.  With the stiffness in my back and the pain in my joints from over-doing yardwork yesterday, I don’t see any hope of bending to retrieve that penny and complete the old adage:

Find a penny, pick it up. All the day, you’ll have good luck.

I won’t complain, though.  I skirt around the penny.  I tip my body forward, holding my cell phone set to “close up” to snap its picture.  When the dog comes into the dining room to ask me to let her outside, she stops right in front of the coin.  What does she know?  I step over it with great care, headed for the back door.  I pour my coffee and stand contemplating the copper sheen.

Maybe the mere presence of the penny will improve my day.  Maybe I can make a new adage. . .

Find a penny, leave it be.  You’ll have good luck, wait and see!

I’m not much of a poet, but I’m an undeniable optimist.

It’s the seventh day of the thirty-second month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  My eyes are blurrier than usual today, behind three-year-old glasses and smears of something like chicken grease.  My body screams in protest every time I take a step, even one around my lucky penny.  Laundry taunts me; the dustbunnies have applied for their own zip code.  The kitchen counters hold clutter fighting for space with grime.  Know this, though: I’m alive.  I awakened today.  I’ve got another chance.  I smile, and pour my coffee, and let that gift comfort me.  Life continues.