The Maple Box

      The maple-wood box had sat on her dresser for as long as she could remember. It was a staple of her bedroom, the sort of thing that she barely noticed on a day-to-day basis, but that would be palpably obvious were it absent. In her adolescence, she had often delved into its contents, hunting through a disorganized mess of colored buttons, scraps of fabric, and thread in search of one that could serve to mend the tear in her favorite shirt, praying the other children at school wouldn’t notice the patch job. As a young adult, the worn, velvet interior had seen the midnight glow of her desk lamp hundreds of times as she frantically altered dresses and shirts and pants newly purchased at the local thrift store.

Then had come parenthood. A new house and a new room held the same old desk and the same old box. Minor patches and alterations gave way to patterns and experiments. Tiny shirts with matching pants and dresses that would be passed down for generations to come required more than just a meager collection of buttons, needles, and threads. The box made a near weekly sojourn to her crafting desk two rooms over. She had resisted the urge to empty its contents to the newer, plastic bins that lined her workspace. Instead, she had carried it to and fro, every time, always returning it to its place of honor. Though the box had begun to look progressively shabbier next to the new sewing machine and the lamp with a fancy magnifying glass and the clear, organized craft keepers, she could never quite bring herself to retire it. 

For it had been the box that had inspired the stockings. The children, one distant Christmas as their parents had been occupied putting up the tree, had wandered into the bedroom and discovered the box. Tipping its contents out onto the floor, they had delightedly examined the buttons that scattered in all directions. Julie had liked the bright red one with the rose. Anton had preferred a rainbow-colored button covered in sparkles. Once she had managed to restrain her temper, the woman had come up with an idea. That night, the simple, store-bought stockings that decorated the mantle each gained their first buttons. Her husband had been puzzled by the idea, but had, after some consideration, selected a simple button with a marbled green pattern as his favorite. The rest had all been along the same vein, everything matching, everything orderly, a testament to his steady personality. She had chosen an antique button with a beautiful silver filigree as her first, followed by a smattering of others with varying, if somewhat similar, designs. There was even a plastic, bone-shaped button that had fallen off some novelty clothing item years ago for the dog. And so the tradition had begun.

With each new addition to the family, a new stocking appeared on the mantle, pushing the others aside to make room. And, each year, a new button marked the age of the one whose name decorated the top. The annual button search had become a family tradition in not one, but four families now. Even the youngest babies were given a choice, and it warmed her heart to watch the videos of tiny, grasping hands reaching for multicolored buttons. She had always looked forward to receiving those envelopes, each carrying that year’s contributions to the button mosaic. And, without fail, the week before Christmas, she had retrieved the maple box and begun her work, adding the newest additions to the ever-growing collection.

But the years were beginning to wear on her. The fingers, that had once danced so nimbly across even the toughest of fabrics, now trembled with the weight of age as they closed around the box. The thin layer of dust that brushed away at her touch gave tell to the span of time since she had last sought out its contents. It occurred to her that she didn’t do much sewing anymore. She grasped it carefully, with both hands, afraid that she would drop it as she had the coffee pot that morning, and her favorite mug four days ago. In the pocket of her bathrobe, small, plastic finger-guards looked up at her, slipping into view periodically as she walked. Their fierce, vibrant colors were so bright as to be almost jarring. She supposed she couldn’t blame her granddaughter for the additional “gift” that had come with the family’s buttons. The paper-thin skin on her hands bore several small bandages covering cuts that she would carry for weeks. Even the smallest prick seemed to take forever to heal these days. So she would wear these “finger guards.” No point in getting blood on the stockings if she could avoid it.

Shuffling steps down the familiar hallway carried her past collage of memories frozen behind freshly-dusted glass. They crept by like a highlight reel of her life. Her slippered feet brought her into the crafting room, now set up for the guests that would be arriving that weekend. Carefully, gently, the box found its way to the table. Equally gently, carefully, she lowered herself into the heavily cushioned seat. A few moments of searching for her glasses found them resting atop the nest of wild, grey hair that topped her head. She laughed to herself. There was not much else to do at this point. Even as she reached forward to open the box, she could feel her hands begin to tremble yet again. Spindly fingers with swollen knuckles pushed open the lid. The eyes, magnified several times by the glasses, peered owlishly down into the convoluted depths as, in her annual tradition, she cursed herself for not organizing better when last she had closed the lid.

Pushing aside the haphazard pile of buttons and spools of thread, she sought out the case at the bottom, the one that held her loose needles. She discovered it after only a few moments. The woman had already made to open it before it occurred to her that the finger guards would do less good if she had already pricked herself so, though she wrinkled her nose and her lip curled in faint disgust, she set about slipping the brightly colored caps onto her fingers. It took a few tries to pick up the needle she desired, and each successive attempt only deepened the scowl on her face. Julie had asked if her mother wanted her to do the stockings this year. She had meant it with the best of intentions, but the question had hurt all the same. Even so, the inquiry hadn’t been unwarranted.

The stockings, which had been so neatly and uniformly decorated at the beginning, were gradually getting sloppier. Lines and stiches that had been straight in her heyday now wobbled with the quaking of her fingers. Twice she had erred and stiches all the way through the back of the stocking and had to cut the stiches and begin again. The process, which would have taken her perhaps 45 minutes in her younger days, had taken a painful two hours to complete. The effort had left her a bit frustrated, if she was being honest with herself. Anton sending off one of her grandson’s handed down outfits to be mended at a local tailor had hurt her far more than she had expected. Of course, he had never intended for her to know, but little children rarely have filters and they often pick up more than expected. Cody had been so excited to show her the outfit too, and it had warmed her heart to see him in it, as it had to see his father and elder brother in them in their childhoods. Though it had hurt, she knew within her soul that she wouldn’t have been able to salvage the garment. Not now. Maybe years ago. But not now.

Still this, this one thing, these stockings, had not been taken from her yet. Pulling out her measuring tape, she carefully began sketch out the lines in an easily erasable marking pencil. Pulling down the magnifying glass, she carefully lifted the fabric scissors, removing the earlier stitching and setting each button aside in a pile with its brethren. Only one she left as it was: her husband’s stocking. His final button, an outlier, standing slightly away from the others in spite of her best efforts at the time, she allowed to remain in its place. Let it be imperfect, as he had allowed himself to be in his later years. That lone stocking now lay on the bed, perfect and waiting to be joined by its family.

With every measurement, every heartbeat of squinting at the blurred numbers on the familiar tape measure, every deep breath to steady her hand before making another mark or cutting another stitch, she became more and more sure that this would be it for her. Julie was ready to take up the mantle. Her lithe fingers would know what to do when the time came. But for now, as she had so many, many times before, the elderly woman would do her work. Another measurement, another cut, another mark, another button added to the pile and so the monotony went on until she felt that she was ready. Then her hand reached into the box, seeking out the desired thread. It took her a few tries to thread the needle, but finally, she managed it. Carefully picking up one of the buttons, she laid it down atop the place she had designated. She took a deep breath, and the needle began its descent, one last time.