I started putting nickels

in a mason jar.

I’d find them on the street

or in couch cushions.

The jar sat in my closet,

always hungry.

As the jar grew,

so did my anticipation.

Once nearly full,

I showed my parents, beaming.

Befuddled by the jar’s purpose,

my dad turned it to read the label.

Painted on the side in red letters:

“For Braces.”

I couldn’t understand why

that made my dad cry.