The Birthday Check
by Kathleen Dixon

In the 1950s, local banks sent personalized checks to noncustomers to try to generate new business. I was eight years old, proud of my new writing and spelling ability, so I begged for these checks from my parents.
In our family, special occasions meant gifts from parents, siblings and friends, but from others it meant cards with money. Cards with crisp ones, fives, tens or twenties meant "I love you." So using these advertisements -- gimmick checks -- I did the same.
My homemade cards, heavily colored and flowery with prose and poetry, with a bogus check inside, were made out to the honoree in the amount appropriate to the extent of my love. For my brothers, it was a dollar. For my parents, it was thousands. For my Uncle Howard, it was a million dollars.
In July of 1958, we held a Sunday dinner birthday celebration for my uncle. He opened the card I'd made, read the message inside and looked at the check enclosed for a long time. Smiling at me from across the dinner table, he thanked me for the card and check. Then he took his wallet out of his back pocket, folded and tucked the check away, saying "I'll just keep this with me until I need it."
Thirty-five years later, I sat drinking coffee, early in the morning, at that same table, across from the same smile, hearing the same voice, sharing the same memories of those thirty-five years, with the same Uncle Howard -- probably for the last time. My uncle was dying of cancer. Radiation and chemotherapy had been administered without success and ended so his crew cut was growing back.
The nausea that had plagued him during treatments was no longer a problem. He was eating again and putting on the weight he had lost. Sitting there talking about the good old days, I fooled myself into thinking this was a pleasure visit and there would be others to come. But deep down, I knew that this visit was for good-bye.
Putting down his coffee mug, he reached for his hip pocket. Unfolding his wallet, he reached inside and handed me a pale blue slip of paper, folded in half, saying, "Remember this?" There was the birthday check for a million dollars. He had kept it, carrying it with him, shifting it from old wallet to new wallet for thirty-five years.
"You never tried to cash it," I joked.
"I never needed it," he said. "I'll just keep this with me a little longer in case I need it yet." He put it away once more.
I left him that afternoon with final hugs, kisses, and the final good-byes. Four days later, he was gone. Shortly after the funeral, I returned home from work and found a package on the kitchen table mailed to me, the handwritten return address from my aunt.
Inside was another small package with a short note in Uncle Howard's handwriting. "Since I don't need this anymore, I thought you might want it back. With love, Uncle Howard." Enclosed was the check for a million dollars, mounted inside a frame. Thanks, Uncle Howard, for a million-dollar love that lasts longer than a lifetime.

Go to: New Age Blogs,
The Inspiration Blog,
Inspiration,
Short Stories of Inspiration,
Real Life Stories,
Making the World a Better Place