T
he small black box contains six shallow red
velvet lined spaces, each with an ancient silver coin; one
bears the familiar silhouette of Alexander the Great. The
coins were a gift, and I placed them in a drawer years
ago, visiting them infrequently at most. When I did, on
rare occasions and usually in the dim light, I felt they
were amulets, handled by the ancients.
I am reminded of Marguerite Yourcenar's book A Coin
in Nine Hands, its French title, Denier du reve—Coin of
Dreams. I recall being fascinated by Yourcenar. After all,
she lived on a stony island, as did I, off the New England
coast and she spoke French, which I was struggling to
HYLAND
