My relationship with hope is frequently and infuriatingly intertwined with my superstitious inclinations.

I’ve heard before that pennies are completely useless in today’s economy. I’ve heard that — besides being incredibly tedious and annoying little coins — they even cost more to produce than what they’re worth. It’s insane and impractical that they haven’t been completely phased out by now. They’re not logical. But neither am I. I find all sorts of pennies in all sorts of places: shiny, grimy, heads, tails, floor pennies, table pennies, pocket pennies, I find them all. And they all have implicit value. I keep them in my room — not in any organized or reasonable way. Instead, they lie sprinkled around, undisciplined. I toss them, lose them and find them periodically. Between the bedframe and the wall, wedged under the mini-amp, there isn’t a nook or cranny in my room that doesn’t accommodate one of these lucky pieces.

Yes, they add to the superfluous clutter. And yes, each coin is a constant reminder of my complete lack of focus. But one day I might reach behind the desk and grab at a dropped charger — only to find that, in my hands, is one of these metallic time capsules. A hope or dream once lost beneath the geologic build-up of junk. And I might remember what value that coin holds. What had I hoped for when this penny was cast away?