Button

You still have the button from your husband’s trousers, a bit of marbled-brown plastic, found on the floor, the memory of picking it up, keeping it in your pocket, more valuable than an old coin, some gold doubloon with the face of a dead king.

How many times did it glide in and out of button holes. How many times, his fingers touching where you touch now?

Here is that button, four holes in the center where thread held it to fabric.

Now light is threading through those holes as you hold it in your hand, tethering his body, his life, to yours.