Owen had been tramping down the sidewalk, dragging a stick behind him, when a flicker caught his eye from the pavement beneath him. Owen stopped. He knelt down. And, in the same way he gazed at ants building anthills, he stared.
“A penny!” Owen said aloud, though no one could hear. And his eyes fixed on the face at the center of the little red-golden circle he held in his palm.
The face had a beard and a strong nose. Above it were the words IN GOD WE TRUST, even though his mother had told him the face was not God’s. Owen rubbed the ridges of the penny, its face and its sides.
And suddenly a wondering popped into Owen’s head–a wonder he wondered why he’d never wondered before. And the wondering was this: Why shouldn’t it be my face on the penny?
Owen imagined some people might say you had to be famous or dead or rich–or probably all three–to be on the penny, but he thought those were all rubbish reasons. And the more Owen thought, the more sure he became that his face would fit perfectly on the shiny little coin.
He knew what he had to do… though he didn’t know how to do it.
First he ran home and pulled a family photo from its frame. He cut out his face and used a dab of glue to paste his photo on the penny.
But within a day, his picture fell off.
Next, Owen went to his easel and grabbed his finest-point brush. He painted his eyes and his cheeks and his bare chin on the penny.
But as soon as it rained, his picture melted away.
Owen searched through the toolshed for a hammer and chisel, and with his carefulest care he carved his face on the penny.
But there were too many cracks and cuts and holes, and it looked nothing like him.
With all his might, Owen tried stretching the penny. A little wider, a little bigger, so he could press his face into it, hoping it would take a mold of his face.
But the penny was too hard and his face was too soft, and it didn’t take his shape.
Owen raced to the bank, held out the penny and asked them to change it.
But they said it was impossible.
Owen went all the way to the US Mint where all our money is made and asked them to put his face on the penny.
But they said he wasn’t famous or dead or rich, so it was out of the question.
Looking down at his penny, now all dirty and bruised, Owen felt sad. Maybe his face would never be on the penny. He even cried just a little–just enough for a teardrop to fall right on top of the penny. And when he looked down at his watery reflection on the penny, he had one last idea.
Owen wiped away the tears and he spit on the penny. Then he pulled out a rag and started to rub the face. Up and down. Back and forth. Up and down. Back and forth.
Owen shined and he shined and he shined and he shined.
And he shined and he shined some more.
For hours and days and weeks he shined his penny, until he felt beneath his thumb it was as flat and as smooth as glass. And Owen looked down…
Upturned in his hand, the penny shined up toward his eyes. In the perfect, clean circle, like the tiniest mirror, Owen looked down at the penny and saw his own face staring back at him.
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