Though she lives in a world of Velcro, snaps
and zippers, I'm showing my granddaughter how
to sew on a button. She's nine, same age I was
watching my mother pick my favorite one, shaped
like a flower a child might draw, color of sunshine.
Her homemaker hands held everything together,
needle and red thread lickety-splitting up, over,
down, up again attaching the blossom to grass-
green cloth: Colors no bee could pass by. Now, before
the last tug of thread through the button
my granddaughter brought me, I point out the pinch
of space—width of a scissor-blade—between it
and the fabric, a shaft of stitches with a half-dozen
twists of thread around it before tying off. Shank,
I tell her, same as Mother named it. It strengthens
the bond between button and garment, less
friction than ready-mades, fasteners that loosen
too soon. Like love, my mother said. Close, but not too
close. A snip of thread and my granddaughter's ready
to go, fluorescent-pink button back on the nose
of her dog-faced school bag, the shank fixing us
together in this world my mother could trust
only so long as everything was done right, only
when she didn't forget to check I was buttoned up
proper, buttoned up tight.