Yes, it was a traumatic thing; losing a button.
Grandma getting her button box down, grumbling ‘bout your careless ways, as she began the hunt for one to match.
That box! Full of every kind of button
a boy could possibly lose! Some of them shiny, some small, and some so big you wondered what they could’ve come off of.
And the colors! More colors than any rainbow ever had!
Grandma scowling, digging with her finger, then, when she grew tired of stirring them, the sound of all those buttons as they chittered across the bright yellow formica tabletop.
Me, hoping she’d get lucky–find one that would match–but knowing that wasn’t the way it would be. Never was.
And when at last one was found, that perfect shiny button–or at least one so close no one would notice–back into the box the rest of the buttons would go.
Until the next time.
I’d watch the little box–magical in it’s own right–go back into its place on the shelf, marveling at the question handed down through time; where do all those buttons come from?
Copyright © 2015 C. Mashburn