Sticky Fingers

February 17, 2011
By Brianne Garcett SILVER, Smithtown, New York
Brianne Garcett SILVER, Smithtown, New York
7 articles 0 photos 0 comments

My eyes scan the room,
As my soft, tiny hands secretly put a five dollar bill into my pocket.

My grandpa warns me,
Don’t tell your mother.

As I run up the stairs,
My mind is racing with ideas on how to spend this money,
But I simply just put it in my pink piggy bank sitting on top of my dresser.

The five dollar bills keep coming,
Each weekend into my little ripped up blue jeans pocket.

Every Saturday that approaches,
I anxiously await my grandpa’s arrival.

I eagerly tell him about my first grade teacher,
And I never forget to tell him about the new friends I’m making.

As the weeks go by,
The pink piggy bank on my dresser is overflowing with only five dollar bills.
However, there aren’t any new five dollar bills being added.

One evening, I lay out my homework on the kitchen table.
I try to concentrate on my addition,
But my ears are focused on what my mom is saying on the phone.

Although I’m young,
The tone in her voice doesn’t seem right.

I don’t lose hope.
That Saturday I stay glued to the wooden chair in my dining room staring out the window,
Waiting to spot my grandpa’s green car.


The author's comments:
When I was young, my grandpa would always come over and give me five dollars, it was kind of a tradition. This poem is me recollecting on this memory from when I was a child, especially since my grandpa is getting very old now. It's nice to have these times spent with my grandpa in my memory and be able to write about it.

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