An object that was found: 

Ten-year-old James finds a brass-colored coin from Guatamala on the floor in 
the Discovery Zone, a noisy, indoor playground and arcade game place that 
children love. I try convincing him that he's found something unique, but 
James is not impressed.  "You mean it's not a token?" he whines.  "Could you 
buy me more tokens?" 

The next week he finds a German coin.  "Here, you can have it," he says. 
"Can I have more tokens?" 

An object that was lost: 

A little boy loses his father's dog tags.  "That's okay," says his mother. 
"He's not your father anymore.  He's been mean to us.   He never paid child 
support.   In fact, from now on, we will refer to him as your ex-father." 

The little boy remembers those dog tags, their dull shine, like an old 
nickel.  His dad's name, number, and blood letters: "AB" and a plus sign. 
His mother said that this was the kind of blood Dad had.  "AB positive: the 
universal receiver.  He can take, take, take, but he never knew how to 
give." The boy asked, "what kind of blood do I have?"  The mother said, "How 
am I supposed to know?" 

The boy thought that maybe the tags fell out of his pocket when he was 
riding his bicycle.  He was racing over the speed bumps and heard a jingle. 
But then he could've lost them at the KMart, too, when he took everything 
out of his pockets to dig up some money to buy gum. 

One day Mom brings home a skinny blonde man with one eye that couldn't close 
all the way.  Not dark-skinned like his father, but pale and freckled and 
unable to speak a word of Spanish. 
"This is Joe," she said, "He's gonna be your new Dad." 

They all go to the beach.  The boy, Mom, and New Dad.   The boy keeps 
looking in the sand for fish skeletons, shells, quarters, hundred dollar 
bills.  Anything could be buried.  Even those dog tags.  Somebody else could 
have found them, carried them around for a while, then lost them on the 
beach.  You never know. 

"We better go soon," says his light-skinned, blonde-haired mother, "I'm 
starting to burn." 
"So am I," says New Dad. 

But the boy wasn't burning.  His thick skin was just fine. 
 
 

Oldest object in my home: 

Portrait of my grandparents on their wedding day.  From the 1920s.  My 
grandmother's feet are stuffed like sausages into tiny white shoes.  They 
look like cartoon feet, Betty Boop feet.  All my grandmother seemed to 
remember about the day was how much her feet ached.  As a small child I'd 
watch with fascination when she removed her shoes, and pointed out  every 
corn, callous, bunion, and hammer toe.   My grandmother was not a vain 
woman.   Her shoes were always big, black, boxy things with square heels. 
Old lady shoes.  My grandmother was a working mother.  She changed sheets 
and cleaned hospital rooms.  Or else she scrubbed floors and toilets.  When 
she wasn't on her feet all day, she was on her knees. 

My grandmother said that when I was her age, I would have bad feet, too. 
But I don't.  Instead I have problems she's never heard of: a butt dimpled 
with cellulite from sitting at a computer,  and carpal tunnel syndrome.  But 
my feet are perfect, like a girl's, and I can dance, dance, dance whenever I 
choose. 

If my grandmother were alive today, I would buy her a silly foot-soaking 
machine that she'd never use. "Oh, c'mon, save your money," she'd say, being 
one who never liked being fussed over with gifts.  But I'd make her soak her 
feet, and afterwards I'd towel-dry them and paint her toenails gold, like 
mine. 

An object you are planning to get rid of: 

Someday I will get rid of that damned irony chair.  What would you call it? 
We didn't have enough furniture to fill up our 2 bedroom, two room 
apartment.   The hand-me-down recliner broke--got stuck in the "out" 
position.   We found the irony chair in the alley.  It was vinyl.  I 
scrubbed it with Mr. Clean to get rid of the cigarette smell.  It was 
broken, too--stuck in the "closed" position, which was preferable. 

Later, I became friends with a friendless, neglected, neighborhood kid. 
Soon I got to know his pathetic, white-trash parents, just enough so I could 
stay friends with the boy.  He was eight.  He played alone outside, where 
bigger kids would taunt him.  One day I saw him sitting cross-legged in the 
middle of the alley. 

His mother let him come over and play with me.  We molded clay, drew 
pictures.  I began buying him toys.   I bought the family groceries, because 
Mom was on social security and Dad--well, that's too long a story.   Their 
apartment was tiny, sweaty, without enough windows and light.   An ailing 
grandma slept on a sofa.  A sad cockatiel, stunned by cigarette smoke, 
squawked loudly, drowning out the ever-present TV. 

My husband said, "Enough already.  He's not our kid.  What can they ever do 
for us?" 

"Have you forgotten?" I said.  "The irony chair.  It was theirs.  She got 
rid of it because it was old and broken." 

An object that belonged to my mother 

I wear my mother's old, sexy nightgown strangely, uncomfortably, wondering 
if she ever wore it to seduce my father.   I decide she never wore it at 
all. 

An object that belonged to my father 

Army yearbooks.  Vague memories of looking at these when I was a kid. 
Padded covers, slick pages with plenty of photographs.  Everyone with two 
arms, two legs, two eyes and ears.  No paraplegics, men on crutches, not 
even a baby band-aid in sight.  It seemed like my father's Korean war 
experience was about as much fun as high school. 

Although, come to think of it, was high school really all that fun?