buttons

I came across a bag of buttons this morning; mismatched and imperfect, they rattled against each other and felt heavy and familiar in my hand. My grandmother, long gone and my mother, long missed, both sorted through them when mending and tending as women would do. They were a source of quiet solitude for me as a child, daydreaming and stacking...circle on circle, plastic and mother-of pearl, shiny brass and bright enamel.

Women leave their legacies in the simplest of ways; worn out recipe cards, beaded evening bags that hold old satin evening gloves, tarnished knitting needles, bags of buttons. Generations of daughters are the keepers of these memories and the feelings that they invoke on sunny october mornings after a night of rainfall. 

Simple gifts and stories and remnants of beautiful lives all found here in this old bag of buttons...