“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…”

“Go on.”

“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.”

“Hmmmm…”

“Just think about it,” he said.

I set my piggy bank over the fireplace.