J-Patt's Blog

The boy sat with his grandfather in a room that used to have red rugs hiding hardwood floors damaged by tables now residing dismantled in his father’s attic, next to a triangular folded flag left by the boy’s uncle. The dragging depressions still scarred the floor, but his grandfather explained that he had come to respect them as he did his own father’s pocket watch whose gears rusted from saltwater in the June of ’44. The boy thought the sofa they lounged on smelled sweaters with chewed sleeves in the dresser drawer of his parents’ room.  He could feel the cushions sagging under him.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Not out of awkwardness or generation gaps or inauthenticity, but out of the grandfather’s love of the deaf air around him and the boy’s love of whatever his grandfather loved, except pulpous orange juice.

His name was Daniel and he didn’t like how the worn sofa forced him toward the edges of the cushions until he had to reposition himself to slide again, though this time he was surprised to find between the cracks a creased and square paper that read, “ALLIED MILITANCE CURRENCY.” The rest was too faded to read. He showed it to his grandfather who said it was called Lira and it was a souvenir from when he was eighteen and travelled the world with a canteen and a Browning. Daniel handed over the Lira and his grandfather made his way toward an oak bookcase. A row of off-white binders, individually labeled, were arranged along the top shelf. He placed his finger on each label until he reached a binder just-left-of-center, and he brought it over to the sofa. He squinted at the Lira and shook his head, then turned to Daniel.

“Can you read this number here?” His grandfather pointed to a smudge near the bottom-right of the Lira.

“SERIES 1943,” Daniel guessed. He was sure of the last number. The four looked like it could be a nine, too, but he guessed ’43 because it looked too worn to be his age. He repositioned himself on the cushion.

“That sounds about right.” His grandfather thumbed labeled dividers until he hit “1943,” and opened the binder from that page. A four-by-six grid of plastic pockets held different types of money, all with 1943 as their production date. They reminded Daniel of his card collections, but it felt different to look at them—mint condition didn’t seem to matter anymore. The idea of any being holographic suddenly sounded gaudy and unwarranted. His grandfather packed the Lira in an empty pocket and let Daniel leaf through the pages. They had been flipped through so many times in the past that there were circular stickers on the hole-punches to reinforce them after time and interest ripped them apart. Looking to his grandfather, Daniel noticed him looking beyond the pages—focusing on something in the Lira’s direction but much farther away.

Art leaned against the arm of the sofa so he didn’t sink like Daniel. He was too tired to be repositioning himself every few minutes. Seeing the sheets of printed money in Daniel’s hands reminded him of when his son, Daniel’s father, brought his brother’s triangular folded flag along with a sheet of 1961 đồng and fastened it inside the last binder on the oak shelf before moving his tables and putting in red rugs to cover their imprints. Daniel repositioned himself on the cushion and told Art that one day he’d help and add new currency to his collection when he travels across the world just like him.