Not that long ago, I wrote a fictional piece called ‘Small Change’ about a 2p coin passing through different hands. Each person who receives the coin tells their story. I was really pleased with it and thought nothing more of it.
When a colleague of ours died recently, a mutual friend asked our team to find a poem, one we might read at the funeral. We didn’t read in the end but in searching for a poem, I came across another, ‘Nothing is Lost’ by Dana Gioia. I am struck by the returning of the coin after many years to the one who had it first, who had it when new. What has happened to the coin, to that young child, now grown?
Here’s a snippet:
‘Imagine that as a child on a day like this you held a newly minted coin and had the choice of spending it in any way you wished.’
Quite separately, I found it curious that the metaphor of life as a journey also came up during a Christmas meal with friends. It took me back to the poem, ‘Ithaca’, by Cavafy, which I return to when I feel the need to be grounded. You won’t find it below. You will have to search for it, if you’re curious and don’t know it and want to find out more. Perhaps, you will bump into the Cyclops or Laistraygonians on the way, perhaps you won’t?