One Last Lucky Penny

A love letter to the U.S. Mint’s newest retiree.

By Luke Zinger 

Illustration by Isabelle Oh

In my hometown upstate, there is a large plastic fish head whose five-foot wide mouth juts out from the carpet. The fish is actually an exhibit in my favorite childhood museum, and every few months from ages four to eight, I would look forward to making a wish while dropping a coin down its mouth. I never remembered to bring a coin myself, so I would plead for my parents (or grandparents, or aunt and uncle, or whoever I’d convinced to take me to the museum in the first place) to give me a penny or a nickel to roll down the coin-fish’s spiral mouth into the small hole at the bottom. My brother and I would often drop coins in at the exact same time, and the person whose coin was swallowed by the fish first would win the prize of not only having their wish granted, but also bragging rights for the rest of the day. I don’t remember my coin ever winning, but I do remember begging for a second chance as soon as my penny disappeared from sight, always desperate for another wish.

On November 12, 2025, the last penny disappeared from the U.S. Mint. The rising cost of penny production (3.69 cents per penny) led the Secretary of the Treasury to determine that the penny was “no longer necessary to meet the needs of the United States.” And while the penny still remains legal tender and can be used for retail transactions, the 30-year average lifespan of pennies means that, most likely, pennies will be nothing but a slightly unusual collectible by 2056.

The loss of the penny will not have a significant impact on the United States economy. It will save the U.S. mint about $56 million annually (the U.S. mint spends roughly $5.7 billion every year), and cash transactions will be rounded to the nearest five cents. The day-to-day financial life of the average American will not dramatically change.

But for those of us who are fond of the feel of its slight weight of copper in the center of our palms or the black-green rust on the edges of the ones that came from our grandmothers’ purses, the retirement of the penny means saying goodbye a piece of the life we’ve gotten used to. It means losing the involuntary half-smile you get when you see a “lucky” penny face-up on the sidewalk. It means losing the triumphant stomach-feeling of giving the gas station cashier exact change for your Diet Coke and Chips Ahoy on a long road trip. It means losing one more bastion of analogue, tactile experience amidst the relentless encroach of digitization. 

The penny was the building block upon which so many of us learned to understand the basis of money, and consequently, how the world functions. When I was young, a penny felt like real, non-discardable money with real purchasing (or, more accurately, playground bargaining) power. Back then, the objects of my deepest desire were things that could be purchased for a penny or two–funnily-shaped woodchips, pink and green silly bands, or the perfectly sized walking stick. And when I first learned that five pennies make a nickel, 10 make a dime, and 100 make a dollar, the paper bill I found under my pillow after losing a tooth took on a real sense of worth. 

There is something about coins—pennies, quarters, francs, yen, pesos, etc.—that, perhaps because of their loveable clunkiness, their connection to superstitious human rituals of hope, or even their very incompatibility with our modern digital age, makes them feel especially human. However inconvenient it may be, pulling a little tarnished coin out of my pocket and knowing that it has passed through hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hands makes me feel as if what I’m doing (be it as simple as buying a pack of gum) is the concentrated effort of thousands of years of human effort, energy, and vitality. And I don’t know if it’s better for the economy, or more efficient for cashiers, but a little green checkmark on a glass screen does not feel human in the slightest. In 2026, I want to feel as connected to my humanity as I possibly can. It can feel like it’s getting harder every day. 

So if there are still pennies in your life, hold on to them. Spend them sparingly and only when you must. Roll them down a plastic fish head in a children’s museum. Give them to kids in the neighborhood for gumballs or a glass of lemonade. Toss one into a wishing well and smell the metallic scent on your fingers. Glance down at the glint of copper on the sidewalk every chance you get. 

You might just get lucky.