Lillian polished an American Silver Eagle coin, its eagle reflecting 60 years of marriage. John had given it to her on their honeymoon, a shiny 1986 piece. "Our freedom, " he'd called it, laughing. They'd built a life-kids, a farm, quiet joys-until cancer took him last spring. The coin stayed in his bedside drawer, his last touch lingering on its surface.
Alone now, Lillian held it nightly, tracing its edges as memories flooded back. One stormy evening, her grandson, Tim, visited, eyes red from college stress. She pressed the coin into his hand. "Grandpa's strength, " she said softly. He stared at it, then her, and nodded. Months later, he graduated, crediting her faith. At her funeral, he slipped the coin into her casket, whispering, Fly with him. The Silver Eagle, a token of love's endurance, bridged their generations, its wings carrying John's spirit through her loss and into Tim's future-a silent vow that some bonds never fade.