You never see this shade of coral now.
And these big pearlized circles—very vintage.
My mother kept them in this plastic shoe box.

She taught me how to sew when I was ten,
or tried. I liked the stepstool at her table
but not the steps—measure, mark, pin, baste, sew.
She couldn’t see paying for store-bought clothes,
higher prices, shoddy work—“Look at
those crooked seams!”—so she made all my clothes.
My favorites were striped pants, a gingham dress,
a green corduroy blazer, all with buttons—
anchors, berries, leather—from the box.

At 14, with the money I had saved,
I got my first new pair of store-bought jeans.
She never sewed me anything again
(though, to be honest, I was fine with that).

She did give me the box—well, not exactly.
She always had the box. And then she died.
And then I found the box and took it home.

It sits on a high shelf. I take it down
occasionally and rummage through the buttons,
hold one for a minute, then put it back,
not knowing what to wish for anymore,
not knowing how to sew, or how to mend.

This poem is a finalist for Plough’s 2025 Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award.

Photograph by Dejan Krsmanovic on WikiMedia (public domain).