I never really understood why my mamma liked to put money in a clear jar. It wasn’t like she swore profusely like my papa, God rest his soul, yet whenever I asked she’d always repeat the same old cryptic riddle:
“You’ll understand someday, dear. Just wait until you’re older.”
While my hair grew longer and my womanly figure attracted the eye of potential suitors, one jar turned into twenty; each of them filled to the brim with coins of different colours.
Finally I understood when I came of age. She wished I’d see the world in all its splendid glory.