Money is pretty funny stuff when you think about it. It costs more to make a penny than a penny is worth. And a dollar, well, it’s not really worth the paper it is printed on because it’s not backed by anything of real monetary value, just a government promise that it’s worth something.
Most of us are beholden to the almighty dollar as it is sometimes called. It has been the subject of countless wars, endless jibes, thoughtful ruminations and on more than one occasion, caused the ruin of a man or brought an entire civilization to its knees.
We have even put it on something of a pedestal, creating an entire retail category around it – the dollar store. You can’t really buy a dollar there, and quite frankly, I’m not sure everything in the store is actually a dollar, any more than everything was five or ten cents in a five and dime of old.
At times, we even make silly choices about how to spend our dollar, too. As Steven Spielberg once said, “Why pay a dollar for a bookmark? Why not use the dollar for a bookmark?” Hhm.
And yet, a single dollar can have a tremendous meaning. I only came to understand this in the last year or so. You see, I have a very special dollar, one that few people know that I even have.
I’ve had it in my wallet for a long time now. It is weather worn, a bit crumbled and rumpled, the ink fading in places. It has seen better days I suppose, but it is still in circulation, largely because everyone along the way has chosen to keep it from ending up in some recycling center, ground and pounded into pulp to make a shiny, crisp new dollar bill.
I have never forgotten that dollar since it was given me. To be perfectly honest, it was mine to start with and today I only have a part of it. Someone else took the other half, a bond between us that no one outside of us really knew or know of.
I guess it was really that special I just didn’t know it at the time. Without warning, this lass simply tore the dollar in half and I received one half back in change. I tucked it into my wallet, a reminder of a moment that in hindsight, would have great significance as I will soon relate.
Even though they were separated by distance, time and place, they remained connected in some way. After all, they could be reunited on a moment’s notice, a simple piece of tape bringing them to life again as transferable, legal tender.
But they had far more power apart. As I said, I didn’t really get this at the time. In fact, at one point the other half came back to me, a gesture of nobility from its holder who had decided to let me go, returning the reminder of our unique bond, a symbol of her heart.
I guess some would simply tape the two pieces back together and find something in the dollar store to buy. I didn’t. I kept my half in my wallet.
Why did I keep it? First, it was a reminder of what could have been. It also represented who I thought I was – a bit used, slightly worn around the edges, something that some other people thought unworthy of being valued because it had seen its better days.
And yet, it never lost its value and I never lost hope on its promise. I never went looking for that other half, forgetting where it had ever been placed, not knowing that it had never been moved from where it had been tucked on that fateful night when two ships seemed to be passing in the night, never to be on the same course again.
To make a really long story short, a series of events happened in my life and in hers. Things that had gone unspoken for a very long time suddenly poured out in a series of very telling “what was saids” and “what was unsaid,” the latter being just as powerful as if not more powerful than the saids. It has come to be known as our First Honestversary.
And the two halves of that dollar? After not thinking about them for months, I came across my half in my wallet and went looking for its mate. I happened upon it after a brief search. It was still tucked into that old pair of jeans, the right hand pocket, just where I had placed it when it was returned to me along with the hope of a lasting relationship all those months ago.
I am thrilled to report that it has since been returned to its rightful owner. The halves of a torn dollar bill are back in their rightful places, my wallet and her purse. They represent so much that it’s nearly impossible to cover in a thousand or so words in this tome. Some of it is well known to us, other meanings have been mused upon, and others are appropriately left unsaid, each of us knowing what that simple symbol means, not only to our past, but our present, and a very long and loving future.
If it my fervent plan that the two pieces are never physically reunited. I came too close to that once, I don’t want it to happen again. Somewhere long ago, a simple dollar bill rolled off a government printing press, passed through hundreds if not thousands of hands and ended up in two pieces that night, a connection made between two people who had no idea that a dollar, a piece of paper some would consider almost worthless, would come to mean so much. It was the down payment on a promise that is only now being delivered upon, a promise to each other, sealed with two halves of paper that are absolutely priceless to us.
In the Emerald City, the richest man on earth,
– Robb