Stimulated from a writing exercise at University, this reminded me of my Grandma’s house and her skill with a needle.
Grandma’s Button Box
It rattles as she lifts it from the mantle.
Broken biscuits, jigsaw pieces?
Lid is prised.
Five year old starfish hands delve deep raising cupped catch.
Each has a story.
Toggle from Johnny’s brown duffle.
Blue rabbit buckled dungaree.
Red ruby off knobbly wool interview suit.
Tilt kaleidoscope and tiny
pearls from soft kid gloves
tumble, while lover’s fingers
fumble with sequin clasp
on throat of dancing beau.
Foot soldiers on Grandpa’s cuffs.
Once solid, serviceable.
Now translucent, yellowed – like old teeth.
No longer a team. Redundant.
Threads loose. Dispensable.
Wartime make do and mend.
Each knew responsibility.
Black jet on crepe mourning dress.
Sentries in waiting.