My grandmother gifted me a jar of buttons when I was little. There were so many inside the jar that it was impossible she collected them by accident; impossible that she had collected them for the purpose of sewing old clothing back together. Her button jar serves as a reminder to me, a reminder of how perfect she was that she never needed them to mend old shirts she had torn, because she was too perfect to have torn any in the first place. I wonder if she gave them to me on purpose, or on accident. If she had given them to me as a keepsake of her, to show all she had collected, Or as a precaution, because she knew I was going to need to mend so much of my future.