I’m a rich girl. Rich like friends and family gathered in my backyard, handing me cards and hugs like they can’t stop. Rich like a diploma in my hand and a scholarship in the other. I’ve got wealth to spare, and if you can’t tell it by my clothes, I guess you aren’t looking hard enough.
When the lights go out, I laugh. I know they’ll come back on and it isn’t a question of how but how long do we get to play board games in the candlelight? How many people can work this puzzle at once in the living room of my grandma’s house? Merry Christmas, with half the city in darkness. I’m so rich I only care about the faces of my parents as they open their gifts, not the wondering, “what will we do if the electricity doesn’t come back?”
Rich like hugs when I go to bed. Rich like toothpaste and food and toilet paper, and a big backyard. Money in my pockets from childhood toys I sold, childhood toys I nearly wore out, but someone else wants them. That person was my mother, bringing home surprises. Money in my bank from my shy boss who told me I’ll get a raise next year and from my grandparents who worked their whole lives for the pleasure of this—a grandchild who doesn’t have to scrape by.
I am rich. So rich, very rich in this life.
Teachers are telling me I’m loved by God no matter what I do, that God exists outside of time and can’t change His mind. No take-backs, I’m rich in promise. Rich in faith where it counts.
In the car, they’re singing at the top of their lungs. All yelling, all laughing, crushed together for a midnight ride. It’s hard driving, but I’m smiling because now I am surrounded in treasure. I will treasure every time we came to this restaurant and every opening night that we celebrated. Think of me like a dragon, drunk with the shine of the horde.
I am the princess, never the pauper. Sometimes the knight in shining armor. I fight my battles because I know how, and I’ve never paid my trainers enough.
Music is worth millions, rolling under my fingers. But my instructor’s smile worth billions when I say I love her favorite song. The feeling has made me trillions when I play for hours—just for me. But maybe for you, as well.
The bad times cost me something. I’m still finding out what. I figure my pockets are bottomless, then stand frozen when they’re not. I thaw as easy as ice cubes melting on the kitchen floor, but something is left behind making me think I can’t give much more.
I figured it’d be a recession when the pains began. The doctor says I’ll live, just never whole again. It’s strange to them when I check my wealth, and find it all still there. And me, I say, “What use is a few dollars to a millionaire?”
