My Father’s Change Purse

I remember walking down the hardwood hallway to the what we always called the “end room”. That was where he always retreated to after supper. I could smell the wine tipped cigar wafting under the door. I would open the door cautiously to see if he was in a welcoming mood. He would be sitting in his vinyl and chrome folding recliner reading the newspaper. He always gave me a crocodile grin and said sarcastically, “Oh, you want a treat do you?” Then he would dig into his front pocket to retrieve the black leather change purse. I can smell the leather now. He would flip it open and ask how much I needed for that particular candy bar. Then he would fish out the coins one by one and place them in my palm, waiting for me to add up the sum after each coin. When we had reached the total amount, he would ask me who I was going to the corner store with and if I was walking or riding my bike. The whole process gave him great satisfaction. He was always very generous with money and my fondest memories of him are from my early childhood. This was an age he could relate to well because it was an age I believe he was stuck in, after losing his parents in the Holocaust.