It is a different tin, different buttons but the sound of buttons pouring out onto a wooden table is just the same.
Immediately I’m back at my Granny’s side, eagerly dumping out her tins of buttons. Running my fingers through the pile as I sort. Finding my favorites, dividing by color, talking with Granny, endlessly fascinated by the collection. Always, I am reluctant to undo my “work” and sweep them back into their circular home when the time comes, only slightly mollified by promises that they’ll be there next time.
Today I dumped the buttons on the table, and though the tin has spent the last year inside a moving box, the girls were drawn to the sound as if by magic. Buttons! Can we play with them? Can we pile them? These are mine! Oops- I dropped some. No- THESE are mine! Can we put them on string? Oops!
The girls and I crawled about on the floor finding buttons and the look I remember in Grannys eyes is no longer a mystery. But I’ll leave the buttons out, just for tomorrow.
It’s a small magic, that of button tins and memories, but there it is, running through the generations, connecting us in my mind like buttons on a string.