My grandma kept
a box of buttons.
Inside you could find
the history of 100 years.

The history of a woman,
a daughter,
a wife,
a mother.

My grandma kept
a box of buttons.
A box of memories
of a life well lived.

Each button tells its story,
it’s covered in the memories
of each place it traveled,
each person who it touched.

Each button different,
some plain,
some intricate,
some dented, misshapen,
or broken to pieces.

Maybe dusty,
covered in grime and dirt,
but each button I find
is more beautiful than the last.

The deeper I dig
the more I find,
the more I find
the more I know,
and the more I know
the more I love.

The more I love
the woman who kept every button;
who thought each tiny button
was important enough to keep.

Some day I hope
to keep a button box
of my own.
A box of stories
and memories.

I hope that one day
a girl will sit with her hands
in a box of buttons,
seeing the history of her ancestors
and the stories of her family.