It's powerful, the sensation of connection. Even over the phone, the smallest sincerity can transform a person's day from dread to elation.

Knowing that strangers are still capable of caring and not in an oh-what-a-shame-but-i-wont-do-anything-to-help-because-it-might-inconveience-me kind of way.

The tiniest step toward understanding, the extra micro moment spent verifying a copay for their upcoming surgery, or the softest sigh of empathy means so much more than any performative sympathy.

Just a small kindness, an easily-done task that requires only a little effort and doesn't harm the tasker.

The meter blips fewer and fewer minutes. No coins can reset it. The screen shows red. A boot clamps the tire.

I wait when I should continue. The sinking hope hurts more than the ticket will. Because, the parking monitor shows no mercy for mistakes and errands that ran long. The slow line at the counter has no bearing on the time he keeps.

I feel too well what my betters divulged of themselves. They scratched furiously on paper. They bled into the collective understanding. The wet works of life circle the block, looking for an opening that’s protected from the cold rain.

And you, you have no duty or desire to petition traffic court on my behalf. No protests will be lodged from the heated seats of your sedan. You won't relinquish your spot. Because, it's paved, paid, dedicated, and dry.

From pockets to purses

From vaults to venues

I was the nickel that made a shared date night soda possible

I was the coin you tossed into the fountain as you made your wish

I was that half dollar you discovered, at age 9, to start your collection

I was the quarter you flipped, calling head, landing tails, making you wait your turn

I paid for your first dime store novel

I was there to offer your two cents worth

With me, you went in for a penny when others went in for a pound

Now I patiently wait in a jar or a drawer or a piggy bank

For your child to discover me

And when their wonderment catches fire

I will be there for tiny hands and big dreams

Just like I was there for you

My first school dance.

And my last.

I got up the courage to ask the guy I had been crushing on for months.

From a distance of course.

It was kind of awkward, the asking.

I asked a month in advance, just to make sure I didn't chicken out.

He thought it was cute that I was nervous.

He said yes.

But the memory I would want to relive is what happened the night of the dance.

He came to my house, and called me beautiful.

He stood and let my parents take all the pictures they wanted.

He shook my dad's hand, listened politely to all of the "ground rules."

The curfew, the intentions, etc.

And then he opened the car door for me.

And held my hand to make sure I didn't fall.

We talked and laughed and played music-

All the way to the restaurant where he had made reservations a week before,

and paid before I even had the chance.

Then, even though it was early still,

he drove us to the dance.

We were the first ones,

but we didn't care.

We walked around, talked, laughed,

chose our spot for the night.

He asked about what music I like to listen to,

we switched phones and compared playlists.

He was the only person I've ever shown my playlist to.

It's the most vulnerable part of my life it seems.

And only when people started showing up did I get visibly nervous.

I was nervous before, but at the time he was the only person

whose presence could calm me in an instant.

And he knew exactly what to do.

He took my hands,

and looked deep into my eyes.

He told me I was beautiful,

and I knew what was next.

He leaned in and kissed me.

He kissed me like there weren't people everywhere.

Like we were the only two people in the world.

And then I asked the stupidest question I could think of.

But I was serious.

Somehow, I still thought he wouldn't want to be with me.

So I asked if everything was just going to go back to normal afterwards.

After the lights dimmed,

and he drove me home for the night.

But he understood what I needed in that moment.

And in every moment after that.

He told me he wanted me to be his girlfriend,

because I was different than other girls.

And he looked in my eyes until I said yes.

And hugged me like the world was ending after I did.

I dated this guy for about four months,

and its been about that long since we broke up,

but it's still my favorite memory ever.

He is my favorite memory.

My grandma makes homemade wine. Its colour is cloudy, and according to several eye-witness accounts, tastes like paint thinner. She has a cup every day with dinner- we joke that It's a vitality potion, being near eighty-eight and still ass bright eyed as ever. But, for the fact it drinks like gin and less than a cabernet, my family does not drink it.

They bring their own bottle to thanksgiving, and this year was no different.

"Did you check the expiration on this?" My mother asks, her face pulled into a grimace and hand to her chest like it might be her undoing.

My aunt grabs for the bottle, confusion pinching her eyebrow. "Wine doesnt have an expiration, I don't think." But checks it over thoroughly anyway.

"It tastes horrible!" Mom exclaims, reaching over to steal my 7-up.

"Hey!" I crow around a mouthful of stuffing and cranberry sauce. "Thats mine!"

"It's not expired," My aunt confirms, completing undermining my betrayal. "Here, Joe, try it." She says, passing it to her husband who pours a finger into his cup.

My brother all but leaps from his chair, his grin shit eating. "Can I try?"

My other brother cuffing his head is the resounding no.

"Woah!" My uncle coughs, slamming the glass down onto the table. "You sure this is wine?" He asks.

The three parents eye each other, and then the bottle, and then their cups in case there might be errant rat poison lining them.

My eldest brother (the do-gooder) pours himself some, holding it above his head and surveying it beneath the light like he was in a labratory, craning his neck in every which way before pulling his gaze back. He blinks, and blinks again. He looks to my grandma who has been suspiciously quiet, usually asking for an interpration of our foolishness in her language, but is now sitting and eating like she doesnt even know were there,

Without preamble, he grabs for her wine. She doesnt bat an eye, which is all the stranger. We all know not to just take her things, if we aren't yearning for a slipper to the face as reward for bad manners.

My brother surveys the two cups under the light, but they don't look quite the same. Maybe it's her cup, thats tinted from living through both wars and the Great Depression. "Colin go grab the bottle." He commands my cousin, who grouses from his turkey dinner but follows the order and goes to the cupboard we all know and fear to unearth the comically sized green bottle.

I look at my mother, who's chugging her second glass of ginger ale and still seems to be holding her breath, though I cant be sure.

My cousin returns, and uncorks the bottle. We collectively wince, half expecting a cloud of arsenic to come billowing out. It doesnt, of course, and we all sigh in relief at that small comfort. However, my brother is having a glass filled, sitting there with his palms flat on the table and face drawn. It's all very dramatic, and I clutch on my other cousins arm beside me in anticipation of the taste test.

He first sips the glass of my mothers, discarded, grimacing and letting out an audible 'blegh.' He doesnt allow himself a moments reprieve as he tosses the second one back.

His eyes widen. We all swatch him, no one daring a breath. my fingers are cutting crescents into my cousin, but she's far too invested to care because then comes the--

"SHE SWAPPED THE BOTTLES!"

My mother gasps- my brother (the rebel) laughs (someone kicks him), I look around in horror because I'm the only other one with a licence in this family, but its only a learners permit so they couldn't have possibly drunk the Great Poison- but then comes my grandmothers giggle, soft at first. She almost seems to be sobbing beneath her hunches posture, but soon she reveals herself, keeling over as sheets of laughter come forth.

"You didn't!" My aunt says, scandalized. "When could she have done that!"

My eldest brother shakes his head, pointing at the little old lady who we always thought to be so sweet, so serious, but has managed to fool us all. "We left the bottle on the table down here with her when we were all upstairs getting the food!" He accuses.

"Don't insult my wine again." Was her only statement on the matter, in my shaky translation, as she takes her cup back and sips it with the kind of smirk only the success of a great heist could bring.

I had never driven before this night.I refused to drive for another three months after the fact, as well.

What a tableau we must have made, a woman screaming in horror as her daughter drives her car down a main road and almost sideswipes multiple side mirrors, with a man placating her as the only voice of reason in this vehicle and a teenage girl- going a firm twelve in a fifty.

Ever since, my mother has kept the wine within her range of sight.

My grandfather's laughter wasn't a complete stranger, but a passing acquaintance. It was spare and sparse, doled out like a prize, and never given freely. A thin smile was the reward for a job well done, an impressive feat, or a particularly clever wordplay or joke. Laughter was a rare sound he could almost remember how to make when conditions were just right.

Smiles and chuckles were easier to earn when light would sparkle on the current running towards the ocean. Sadness was an abstract idea left moored in far away ports when he retired as a stevedore; sadness was an abstract idea left to wither in empty classrooms when she found retirement of her own. They were happy in the years that they walked the sun-dappled banks of a winding Southern river, and sadness was the color of our world when she left us behind. His good humor was laid to rest on an October day that was also their wedding anniversary.

I once asked him why he stopped being a fireman. I think of that conversation every time I pass that fire station in the old historic district of Savannah.

"The smell." That was the only explanation he offered. The only other clue to his reticence was when my mother or father would grill, he'd never come outside until dinner was served and the grill was put away. The man himself didn't own one.

Before retirement, I would stay with them in the second house they ever bought together, where they finished raising one daughter after the eldest had wed and moved on. I can still remember the blue carpet in the dining room and the grapevine that ran the length of the garden in the backyard. Every summer, he'd toil for the spoils of the earth; riches gathered were golden corn and the rubies of vine-ripened tomatoes.

I can vividly recall the slices of tomatoes in contrast to the Fiestaware, freshly creamed corn pooled to turn those slices into red atolls in a yellow sea.

On most of these overnights at their pre-retirement house, I'd wake to find a paper bag of freshly baked donuts. He would have to be at work at some inhumane pre-dawn hour, but he'd always leave just a little earlier than normal so that he could bring donuts back to the house for his grandson. I was always fascinated with the fact that he was there when I'd go to sleep, but then mysteriously gone when I woke up, and I never heard a thing.

I've since walked a mile in his footsteps, having known work that occasionally required inhumane pre-dawn hours. I'm still in awe of his ability to stay awake through the 11 o'clock news and then rise at some mysteriously masochistic time.

He showed affection by doing things. Providing. Entertaining. Not necessarily talking. He'd take me along on trips to the store; I always liked going with him more than going with my grandmother, because she knew the definition of the word "No." He'd always let me come home with something extra, something unnecessary. Something I wanted but never needed; there were always new toys to be had, and I'd leave some of them in the cardboard box I kept at that river house.

On one of these shopping trips, he introduced me to something that, unknown to either of us, would change my life forever. He bought me a Daisy Powerline 860, a BB repeater and a pellet air rifle. It was fairly low-powered, but to a six year old, it was a mighty weapon indeed. He taught me how to use it, he taught me how to respect it. He gave me that rifle, and a little red Swiss-army knife that he got for free with his Old Spice holiday gift pack. I still have both.

I would wander the banks of that river for hours with the knife in my pocket and the rifle in my arms; tin cans and tree trunks trembled and feared my name, and the river herself would let me skip shots like stones.

A decade later, I don't think he was ever as proud of me as when I brought home dinner for the first time using those skills he first taught me on those banks. I think that laughter is what's kept in a bottle in my memory, and I open it from time to time.

Stoicism. Self-reliance. Organization. These lessons he taught me by example, and everything combined with what he taught me with that Daisy to help make the man I am. All of these skills are some of the reasons why I'm still here today, and others aren't.

It wasn't until years after he left that river for good that his laughter became as much of a stranger to me as I became to him, but the memory remains.