My great-grandmother’s woven basket—a trove the size of a bread loaf—brimming with spare buttons. The wood door to her sewing room ajar. Her threaded Singer perched like a hummingbird amid patterned fabric and spools.
The flour on her wood cutting board and maple rolling pin in the kitchen. The smell of confection, like gingerbread and breakfast muffins.
Her Sunday stroll to the corner store with her button-front smock, and her slow return to her apartment on the third-floor.
Slip silently, by yourself, away 