“Grandma’s sewing box.”
When I was a child, that box lived beside her chair.
Buttons in one compartment.
Needles in another.
Spools of thread arranged by color.
And always, at the very bottom, wrapped in brown paper, something I was never allowed to touch.
I looked at Grandma.
“You brought this?”
“For Lily.”
My eyes filled.
“Grandma, she’s one. She can’t sew.”
Grandma gave me a look.
“Neither could you at one.”
That was fair.
I opened the clasp.
The top tray still held buttons.
Dozens of them.
Pearl.
Wood.
Blue glass.
Tiny red ones shaped like flowers.
