#59

a guardian angel branded in tarnished silver rubbed against copper portraits of lincoln and smooth-edged jeffersons.
it couldn't buy a stick of gum, but it was always there, and sometimes a hand reached down, cleared the other coins away, eroding it a little more, rough fingers to smooth surface.
before this pocket, it had traveled from a factory, to a store where it was purchased with lots of lincolns and jeffersons, by a little girl. not long after, it traveled to a soft patch of grass and a quick running stream.
there was a flash of a photographer's bulb and it was picked up again, soon to be dropped near a waiting cab on the sidewalk of st. paul.
it was picked up again, looked at curiously, and thrust into this pocket. this new pocket belonged to a man who lived in a perpetual state of monotony. he didn't even believe in guardian angels. but for some reason, it helped him to know that somewhere, someone did.