“Hello,” said the piggy bank I’ve had since I was two. He was sitting in a box on the floor.
“Yes?” I asked, slightly irritated.
“We don’t really see much of each other anymore. I was just wondering why.”
“Well, it’s because I don’t need you anymore. I keep my money elsewhere. And besides, you look silly. I’m not six anymore.”
“I look silly? Silly? You think I chose to look like this?!”
“Hey, I’m sorry.” It was my best attempt at caring.
“And I can still hold money. I can.”
“You’re right, you can,” I said, unswayed.
“You know, that’s not all I ever was…”
“Remember when you were in the third grade? You wanted nothing more than that Super Soaker 100. Every week, you’d tear me open and count all the money I held.”
“What are you saying?”
“Just that it’s not all about keeping money. I used to hold your aspirations too. And perhaps I’m being presumptuous, but I think I should do it again.”
I could only stare at him.
“You need a place to keep your dreams,” he said. “And I know that Wells Fargo doesn’t have an account for that.”
“Just think about it,” he said.
I set my piggy bank over the fireplace.
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