The Tin

Sometimes I come upon it, the tin

small but weighty, slightly mysterious

once, long before me, it was a biscuit tin

now, the lid is chipped and worn

the colours tired

years might pass before it is seen

forgotten, then remembered

 

I was a boy that first time

slowly, silently pulling the lid off

hoping for secret treats

finding instead a dense, shimmering treasure

buttons

so many buttons

 

she told me that she had started collecting them before

before me

before my father

before almost everything and everyone

before

 

silver, gold and brass

some tarnished, some gleaming

some small and subtle

from times she was unsure

still finding herself

some large and ornate

that could only be worn by a woman

who has learned to lean into the wind

instead of being blown away

 

this time I found it in the hot-press

in dusty dark recesses

it harboured part of my childhood

and all of hers

my fingers knew before my eyes and I was tumbling through lifetimes

 

I slowly, silently pulled off the lid

there they were

there they are

buttons

so many buttons

one is blue

the blue of her still twinkling eyes

“Each one is a memory”, she says, startling me

 

the box is nearly full