He walked through the tall grasses as the soggy ground beneath hugged the edges of  his boots. It was a glorious day, the temperature nearly touching 50 and the sky a brilliant splash of deep blue verging on periwinkle, his favorite color.

It had been a year – or was it two? Maybe more. Yes, maybe more. Time was like that, clear at some points, offering Monet-like images in others. What he did know was that it didn’t seem like a year or two or more ago. It seemed like yesterday. And it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Whenever it was, he’d been walking along the railroad tracks sorting through his financial troubles and wishing them away. His thoughts had turned to the tons of money (lucky sport) that had been made with something beginning with the likes of the Tom Thumb. Most folks thought of the name as belonging in English folklore stories of the 1600’s rather than a steam locomotive. Then his mind had wandered to the buildings and towns that had sprung up along the railroad and drifted into curiosity about how the people of those towns had lived and loved and died. He hadn’t reached much past the beginning of those thoughts, however, when something along the edge of the tracks caught his eye – a flash of brightness made him stoop to look closer.

The gold coin that had glinted in the sun covered another one or two. Maybe more. He looked around and, seeing no one, dug down, pocketed them and hurried home.

The time that passed offered both good and bad, excitement and boredom, fun and trouble. He learned that, while it made life easier, money did not make it better. What made it better was purpose. He found one, maybe two, and found many ways to accomplish them, some with money and some without.

And then one day he was tired. No, not tired of his purpose, but tired of the wealth and of the things that went with it; tired of false friends, tired of those living in pretense of either importance or victimhood, and (curiously enough) tired of always getting what he wanted. His mind wandered back to the Tom Thumb and the buildings and towns that had sprung up because of it. He thought again of the lives affected by it – lived in glory or ruin or everything in between. And he wondered if in some grand tangle of meaning the Tom Thumb that had brought newness and greatness was somehow inextricably linked to the miniature folklore character who found trouble.

In such ponderings he found himself as he walked through tall grasses on a beautiful day. Ah. Here it was. The spot. He looked around and, seeing no one, dug down and placed one or two – or maybe more – gold coins just visible in the ground. Maybe some lucky or unlucky soul would come upon it as he had done. He wished whoever it was well, but did not wish it again for himself. After all, troubles of the rich aren’t necessarily dwarfed by troubles of the poor.

He began his return walk without a backward glance and no regret.

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