Button Box

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).