There’s something magical about finding a penny on the ground.
When I take Mollie for a walk, part of the fun is the possibility of finding a penny. I almost always do.
Some of them are in bad shape, their edges rough, their faces scratched. I think about what might have brought them to that place, there on the concrete, in that condition. Where they’ve traveled, the people who’ve carried them in their pockets or purses or backpacks.
Some of them are pristine, newly-minted. They are easy to spot, shining in the sun. They haven’t yet had the opportunity to experience the world but are still an exciting prize.
Occasionally, I’ll find a dime, a nickel, or even a quarter. Once, I found several of each, lying on the road like an unplanned path, and I paused to scoop each one up as I made my way along the distance.
Those types of finds make me happy, but finding a penny brings a slightly greater thrill. I suppose it’s because pennies are associated with good luck.
Little magical lucky stars, just waiting to be discovered.