The Button in the Grass

There was a button in the grass.

It was a small brown button with four holes in it.

It had been there since Tuesday.

On Tuesday, a woman had hung some washing on the line.

One of the shirts had been missing a button.

She had noticed this when she took the shirt off.

She had searched the grass.

She had searched beneath the clothesline.

She had searched around the basket.

But she had not found the button.

So she had gone inside.

The button stayed in the grass.

On Wednesday, it rained.

The button became muddy.

On Thursday, the sun came out.

The mud dried.

On Friday, a snail passed over it.

The button did not move.

On Saturday morning, a boy came into the garden.

He was looking for a marble.

He had lost it somewhere near the fence.

He looked under the bushes.

He looked behind the watering can.

He looked beneath the garden chair.

He did not find the marble.

But he found the button.

He picked it up.

“What's this?”

He rubbed it against his sleeve.

The button became cleaner.

He put it in his pocket.

Then he forgot about it.

That afternoon, the boy's mother was sitting beneath the tree.

She was sewing.

The boy came and sat beside her.

“What are you making?”

“A pocket.”

“For what?”

“For your jacket.”

He took the button from his pocket.

She looked at it.

“Oh,” she said.

She held it between her fingers.

“I know this button.”

The boy looked at her.

“It came off my blue shirt.”

She turned the button over.

There was a little thread still caught in one of the holes.

“I couldn't find it.”

The boy looked towards the grass.

“You found it?”

“I found it,” he said.

She smiled.

“Thank you.”

Then she put the button on the table beside her sewing.

The boy went to look for his marble again.

He found it beneath the garden chair.

The next morning, the woman sat beneath the tree with the blue shirt.

She took out the needle.

She threaded it.

She held the shirt in one hand and the button in the other.

For a moment she looked at them.

Then she sewed the button back on.

The shirt looked almost exactly as it had before.

The woman put it on.

She went outside.

The boy was playing near the fence.

He looked at the shirt.

“That's my button.”

The woman looked down.

“Yes.”

The button was where it had always been meant to be.

Or perhaps it was simply where it was now.

The boy ran off to find his marble.

The woman hung the washing on the line.

The shirt moved gently in the breeze.

The button held on.

And in the grass beneath the clothesline, there was nothing to find.