Dimes have always been appealing to me. When I was a child, I had a piggy bank for all the rest of my coins, but my dimes had their own special place inside a ceramic box my grandmother had given me. I enjoyed their small size and studied their ridges. I would hold a single dime in the palm of my hand and press my fingers firmly against it, noticing how the dime seemed to mold to my skin and eventually took on a warmth of its own. And I lined them up. I would make several rows of evenly spaced dimes, imagining a life and personality for each one as I placed it so carefully next to its other family members. Then I'd lie my chin down on the carpet and study the order I had created. And I could do it. I could create this order, and everything about it made sense. When it was time to return my simple escape to its ceramic box of safe-keeping, I always had a profound sense of dread welded deep to my core. No, I could not stay on the floor transfixed on my dimes any longer, despite the calmness this cultivated, but I knew it would take time and concentration to recreate this simplicity and structure once again.
I haven't had my dime collection since I was 12 or so, but I recently realized that at times, I am still trying to line up my dimes; striving to arrange aspects of life into the perfect order, only to be dismayed when it is time to sweep up the pieces into their natural complexity. Without the order derived from exact alignment, it can be difficult to relax. On the other hand, maintaining that symmetry is exhaustive, and on further review, really has no reason. How much easier it would be to know that the dimes are spread carefree among all the other coins, and that this is perfectly fine.
