The following story is an interpretation that might explain published reports that rare and valuable Indian Head nickels have ended up in Salvation Army buckets in Vermont.

Each year, in winter, the frost on my window froze into a spiral. A strong wind, it seemed to me, could shatter it. But as cold as it could get in Vermont, my thumbs could defrost a small spot in the shape of a heart, in seconds. One thumbprint layered over the other, I sent love out to my future family, wherever and whoever they may be. I would peer to the field beyond, overlapping hearts until the conquered the frost.

Those who don't understand life in an orphanage probably believe all of my childhood moments were spent in desperate anticipation. People probably think we felt like kittens, crying to be plucked from the box because we had the right colored fur or desirable markings.

We were like royalty most of the time; we ate three home-cooked meals every day and went on special outings every weekend. We all had at least two pairs of shoes and a warm coat. Granite Manor thrived because of donations, especially the generous amount of coins that landed in the Salva tion Army buckets at Christmas.

A little girl, with ringlets the color of butternut, I was quiet. I loved to draw what I saw outside my window. The field, distant train tracks, and sky changed every day. I never escaped my own lines but felt free. Passionately, I explored many colors from periwinkle to auburn to chartreuse. Because it was the color of Salvation Army buckets, I made sure to use red in every picture, whether the accent of a distant train car, a snowman's scarf, or the leaves of a maple. I would watch the sun disappear and then I would curl into my bunk…another day had passed.

The seasons chugged along rhythmically, like an electric train around a tree…around and around, seemingly gaining momentum.

By the time I was old enough, I hadn't found a family and a family hadn't found me, but I was ready to go out and make my way. I got a job at a bank in downtown Barre and started my life.

The afternoon I met Percival was ordinary. The delicate February snow had found its way to the sidewalk as people entered and stomped their boots on the sleek marble. People always whispered.

"I need access to a safety deposit box," he said softly, avoiding my eyes.

"Fine, sir." As I touched each item carefully, I wrote a list. "Three Indian Head nickels, a ring, and a house deed."

"Those coins were from my father's collection. He died three months ago and my mother just died. This is what remains of their estate. I'm an orphan now. At my age, you may think it shouldn't matter. But it does. It feels…well…strange."

I finally had a chance to examine his narrow face. Immediately, I recognized the color of his eyes because I had scribbled that color. It was a blend of blue layered over green and tan. It was a color I had used repeatedly in pictures of the summer horizon. At some point I realized that the sky should touch the ground. His hair was as dark as a Vermont brook at dawn, but frozen at the edges. Even at his age, he felt the sting of isolation to come. I found my voice, "I'm an orphan. I'm sorry for your loss. It feels pretty lonely at first."

He stretched his palms and laid them flat. Between his hands, the Indian Head nickels waited, face-up. "No one warned me how alone I'd feel."

"It can be lonely. I was pretty young. It's all I've known." I patted the back of his wrinkled hand.

"Well, you must be a strong young lady."

"Thank you. The Salvation Army helped. They always made sure I had a happy birthday and a merry Christmas."

Our friendship began. Years passed.

I married a carpenter during my late twenties because he had hands stronger than mine and arms that enveloped me better than a winter coat. We lived in an apartment and he repaired other people's houses. Over the first five years of marriage, I became as inflated as a hot air balloon three times and gave birth to two boys and one girl. Although crowded, we arrived gently in the land of parenthood. We were surrounded by giggles and tears, band-aids and teddy bears. The same train that passed the Granite Manor of my childhood also passed the bank window every day. Its whistle was a daily reminder that time moved along.

Percival always waited in my line. He was as steadfast as Monday and visited loyally. We had a bond of silent understanding. After our first conversation, we never again discussed that we were orphans, but that fact was always there, wrapping around us like a velvety ribbon on a package.

He never seemed to age.

Following his death, his lawyer showed me Percival's will. At the bottom there was a note written in Percival's familiar handwriting.

"In the darkest time of my loss, you told me it would get easier. You have been a daughter to me through many years. You are the only person in this world I consider family. From one orphan to another…thanks."

I was set up as his sole beneficiary and he instructed the lawyer to give me the contents of his safety deposit box. He wanted me to give the ring to my daughter. The deed to Percival's home was transferred to my name.

The three valuable coins…well that was the very best gift of all Percival left very clear instructions that I was to anonymously place all three coins in Salvation Army buckets. His request has made me happy.

Red always has been my favorite color.