Wednesday, March 7, 2012

breaking the bank

I had several piggy banks in my childhood and they all had one thing in common.
Something sort of ominous.
The money could enter, but never exit.
Unless you smashed the china pig or decapitated the plastic soldier of course.
The money was as secure as Fort Knox.
Now that was saving at its finest.
Well, it was hoarding at its finest too I guess.
Breaking the bank, literally, never seemed worth it somehow and so we saved on.
Those quarters and dimes added up.
Became weighty.
Registered on the richter scale of our conscious mind until some "thing" was eventually deemed worthy of slaying the pig.
I can still feel the ambivalence.
Is a bird in the hand worth two in the bush? I wonder.

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