My grandfather was a puttering, delightful man with a slight Russian accent and a strange set of mannerisms hailing from the "Old Country." One warm May afternoon when I was young, he knocked on the screen door of our house and immediately let himself in, without waiting for anyone to even move from his chair. He greeted my mother with a string of Yiddish words that were his customary blessing, and then knelt down in front of me.

"I have something for you," he said with a smile, and held out his fist, palm down. I grabbed it and tried to force his fingers open; of course, he was stronger than I, but eventually he let me at the treasure in his grasp. It was a balled-up green bill. I unfolded it, wondering what the number on it was, wondering at my unexpected windfall, and was befuddled when I saw the number '2' in the corner.

"Oh, Dad, where'd you find that?" My mother leaned over as if to take my present from me.

"No, it's his," my grandfather said firmly, moving slightly so he blocked my mother's advance. "This way, you see," he said to me, his fake white teeth smiling at me, "you keep this with you, and you will never be without money. You will never be broke."

"That way," my mother, ever the pragmatist, added from the couch, "you'll always be able to buy a train ticket home."

I nodded, folded up the bill, and put it ceremoniously in my pocket. My mother then ushered me out to play while she poured herself and her father a glass of wine. They sat in the living room, discussing things - I don't know what - and eventually he went home, his back fading into the darkness as he walked up the street towards his own house.

*

My grandfather died a few years later. I don't know how many, exactly, because I don't remember how old I was when he gave me that small gift. Two dollars won't buy me a ticket home, anymore. I'm sitting in the airport - the only method of transportation that's logical for me anymore - and looking around at the greys, the busy people, the anxious children, and I remember the days when two dollars could get you anywhere you wanted to go. If it cost more than that, I'd always believed, it wasn't worth going to.

I bought a cup of coffee a few minutes ago - the coffee in this airport is miserable, but it's the only thing that makes the layovers bearable - and as I pulled my last three ones out of my wallet, the now-ancient $2 bill caught my eye from the back of the billfold, where it's nestled since the first time I opened the wallet. Whenever I get a new one - which is every few years; they don't make them like they used to - the first thing to make the hop from old to new is that bill. It sits back against the leather or the fabric and most of the ink has worn off of the paper now. I remember when it was new - new to me, anyway - and I could pull it out to show to my friends and hear the crispness of it as I unfolded it. My grandfather had balled it up to give to me, but after I got my hands on it I kept it neatly folded and flat. It doesn't crinkle like it used to; it hasn't crinkled that crisply since my friends lost interest in the money I refused to spend.

I passed a pretzel stand a few minutes ago, coffee in hand, and my stomach reminded me that I haven't eaten all day. I thought back to the coffee stand and sighed; the only bill left in my wallet was that one - the $2 bill that most places would probably think was fake anyway. Not that I'd ever imagine spending it. That bill is as much a part of my heritage as my big nose or my last name. It may not buy a train ticket home anymore, but it's held its other promise to me. Years have passed since my grandfather knelt in front of me and handed me his treasure, when the wind was fresh and the air was unclogged by industry and bustle. "Home" isn't just more than a $2 train ticket away; it's not really even home anymore. That house, with its screen door and comfortable couch, was demolished when I was in college to make way for apartments. The streets I played on - skinned countless knees on, lost countless teeth on - have been paved and re-paved so any lasting legacy of lost skin is gone. The children that I showed my $2 bill to have been scattered to all ends of the country; some are in professional careers, some are flipping burgers, some, like me, aren't sure where they'll wind up. That neighborhood, that city, that place that used to be "home" holds nothing for me anymore. And it hasn't for a long time.

But in those years that have passed, my grandfather's bill kept its other promise. Through expensive dates, student loans, failed business ventures, and airport layovers, I have always been able to open my wallet and see at least one United States issue paper currency; in all those years, I have never been broke.