27 and more

About two months ago, my dad sent me a summary of benefits for a life insurance plan he and my mom opened when I was born. This was the first I’d ever seen or heard of it. An expired piece of paper, jammed into a Christmas card addressed to me and my boyfriend, “Sir Patrick.”
He called later to tell me what it was, that he had been paying the quarterly fee my entire life so far to keep the account open. He was calling to tell me that he wasn’t able to make payments anymore. That is was up to me, if I wanted, to keep it open or cash it out for “a down payment on a new car.” How did he know I was thinking about getting a new(used)somethingelse car?
I nestled the piece of paper away. Put in on my mental do-to list and went to work, to sleep, to movies, to California. I, well, went on with my life.
It wasn’t until my mom gave my brother and I the ‘do it or lose it’ lecture that I finally realized I could indeed lose it if I let it sit there.
Almost 27 years of payments and my life so far is worth $65,000. If I cash out now, only $3,300.
Somehow it seems like it should be worth a lot more. If only for what I’ve accrued along the way. If only because it’s mine. Do they factor in love, poetry, kitty cats, tv’s, best friends, photos, art, cold coffee? These days $65,000 these days will get you a really rockin’ car. Keep rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ or a really shitty house. Or 2 college degrees or about 4,333 books of poetry at 15 bucks a pop. (did I do that right? Basic Division? eeew math).
I probably won’t think about it too much. And there’s no point in Pat trying to kill me because we aren’t married and he wouldn’t get the money anyway. It would probably go to my mom and I’m sure she’d much rather have me than the money anyway.
I’ll take the life, instead.

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