COMMENTARY
The other day, on my walk up the hill and around the block, I found a dirty penny on the pavement. An old response kicked in: The find is mine. I bent over, picked it up and put it in my pocket. Back in the house, I dropped it, among other coins similarly discovered in recent years, in a woven reed basket on my dresser. It’s a small basket, as wide as a hen’s egg is long; a friend gave it to me one Easter, soon after my parents died. She’d filled it with paper grass hiding jelly beans and chocolate eggs.