“Buttons” by Jennifer Judge

         "Buttons"

I have saved plastic daisies, wooden toggle, metal military-style, generic plastics in shades of green (kelly to teal to emerald), blue (cobalt, baby, sky), and every variation of black, gray, and white.  Pearlized, tortoise-shell.  The fragile shell ones that dotted the back of the linen dress I wore for graduation—every time I sat down, another would break.  Purple and lavender, fabric covered that bring back a long-gone blouse or skirt.  I have every extra button from every article of clothing that we have bought since 1997.

I bought a box, moved that box from a bungalow to a Victorian to the basement of another house.  I have loved buttons for a lifetime.  I like the heft of the box now, the way the contents roll and rattle and bang against its cardboard sides.

I have ironed around.  I have sewn back on.  I have changed out those I do not like.  

I like the history of a box no one knows but me.  When I die my daughters will say why did our mother keep all of these buttons.  They will throw them away.  

As it should be.

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