Grand

How much is that, it sounds like a lot, sounds big, Grand. A grand. If I was alone, an old man living in a house of memories, I could eat for six months on a grand and still feed the dog. If the car needed new tires, and god knows what else it would need, I could get really good ones,  winter ones, with deep treads that stopped on ice on downward hills, for half a grand. If I was really old, and didn’t drive too much, they could last ‘til I was dead, and someone would have $500 left. A hundred dollars seems like a lot, a grand should seem like a fortune. A penny isn’t what it used to be, you don’t even pick them up for luck. A nickel is a waste. I know some rich people for whom a grand to them is like a ten dollar bill to me. They could give me ten dollars and I could buy food, if I was alone, an old man,  to keep me alive for six months, and the dog, and they wouldn’t even remember where the money went. I’ve never held a one-thousand dollar bill, how the hell did Grover Cleveland end up there? Yet somewhere in my life a grand became not so grand. When I started thinking about growing old as I’ve been instructed to think about growing old. What’s a grand to me in retirement,  alone in a nursing home? With only a grand, I’ll be curtains in less than a week. If I leave my kids a grand, what’s the measure then of my life?