The Copper Pot

When I remember my parents, a single memory of their immigrant struggle comes to mind. I watch them, hunched over a copper pot rolling coins, taking stock of my dad’s second job tips. Rolled coins neatly, carefully stacked within the pot. They saved for bonds, household goods, future dreams, hope. When momma died and doing the painful task of clearing her things out, I found the copper pot. 

Inside it now, are my stashed away memories, treasured items, future dreams. Whenever I hold that pot, and remember them, I am sustained. Transformed.