The Button Box

the button box drew me in
with its mysterious layers of discarded lives
and that musty smell of old people and places. . .

the large, round, tin box
decorated 'round and atop with Christmas scenes;
horse drawn carriages with sleigh bells
and Christmas lights brightening up a country town;

when you picked up that box
you could feel the crisp, freezing night air
blowing your hair, stinging your face as you rode in that sleigh,
covered with a lap robe to keep you warm;

you knew grandma's house was near,
roaring fire and eggnog with a cinnamon stick awaited;
you could hear the laughter and feel the love in that place
as you urged the horses to hurry along;

and then you removed the lid of that box. . .
and visions rushed past your eyes
of shirts, dresses, pants, coats, shoes, hats and suits,

items which have worn out their usefulness
but left a memory behind to fill your dreams
with multi-colored buttons; wooden, plastic,
many sizes but mostly all round;

a tiny white button from grandma's high button shoe
that she wore every Sunday at age eight in 1913,
several pink buttons from those ugly, matching
dresses that grandma proudly sewed for she and I

another handful of white buttons
from mother's white, first communion dress
and many, many multi-colored buttons
off flannel shirts that grandpa wore until threadbare
,
grandma could remember
where each button had its humble beginning,
but we never knew where it would end. . .

. . .much like our own lives, perhaps. . .