There's an old Blue Bird snuff tin on my cutting table, and it's near about empty now. My grandmother kept her buttons in it. Not organized, just poured in there, all colors and sizes knocking together, and I can still hear that rattle when I'd shake it as a girl.

I've been using them for years. One here on a quilt for my sister's retirement, a green one on the piece that went to the show in Atlanta last spring. Little bits of her traveling out into the world on cloth. But I've got about nine left now and I've noticed I keep pushing the tin to the back of the table when I'm working, like my hand knows something my head won't say out loud.

My granddaughter says I ought to put the rest in one quilt and be done with it, make it a whole thing, a tribute. I don't know. That feels like closing a door. Long as they're loose in the tin they're still just buttons. Still hers.

Anyway that's what's on my mind this morning while the iron heats up. Nine buttons and a decision I keep not making.