A Tin of Buttons and a Box of Notes

My mom's most prized possessions?

A tin of buttons and a box of handwritten notes.

She never said it outright, but I don't think it was the buttons or the paper that mattered most — it was the memories they held. Each button told a story: one from the blouse she wore to my wedding, another from the dress Annie wore home from the hospital. Each note carried a heartbeat from the past ,a letter from Cody asking if angels have elbows, my childhood essay about why you should love your mom.

It was never about the faded ink or worn edges. It was about the emotions they carried,  the way her heart must have filled when she ran her fingers through those treasures, remembering the moments stitched into her life.

Even though she's been gone fifteen years, I think about her often. Sometimes I open that same tin and that same box. I trace the buttons, unfold the notes, and wonder which memories she was holding onto and which stories I never got to hear. What story is behind a specific button, like this one?

Maybe someday I'll know. Until then, I'll keep them safe — her memories, my memories — tucked away in a tin of buttons and a box of notes.