My Aunt’s Buttons by Joan Currie

My maternal aunt
was the eldest child
of Depression parents.

She could make something beautiful
out of very little.

Her father’s worn wool suits
became braided rugs.
Outgrown dresses and shirts
became pieced quilts.
Old sweaters unraveled
for mittens and toques.

When she came to visit,
she gathered up my daughters’
too-small clothes
into her lap with delight,
then sat at the kitchen table
with her small scissors
and seam ripper,
taking each garment apart
with the care of a surgeon.

When she was done,
baby jars of buttons
lined my shelves–
sorted by color and size.

There were neat folds of fabric,
bundles of lace,
zippers saved for later.

Then came sweet afternoons
spent sewing rag dolls beside her,
with little dresses to match.

But when the remnant basket
was empty,
she would begin looking
toward our closets,
imagining what else
might be cut down, remade.

Nothing was entirely safe.

That was usually when
it was time for her to go home.

Now, years later,
I find myself sitting
by the sewing machine
with a seam ripper in hand,
saving buttons from old clothes–

the old baby jars
still full on the shelf,
still being used.