Here is a button box that belonged to my grandmother.
I remember sitting beside my mother as she sewed (or tried to sew—my mother found everything about sewing frustrating and baffling). I remember tracing my fingers over the picture on the lid of the box.
I was six years old, maybe seven; I could read a little, but not much.
I loved stories.
“Is that a little boat underneath the bridge?” I asked my mother.
“Who knows,” said my mother. She looked at the box. “Yes. That is a boat.”
“Is the woman going to get on the boat?” I asked.
“Arrrggh” said my mother. “Thread this needle for me before I lose my mind.”
I threaded the needle.
“Is the woman getting on the boat?” I asked again.
“If you say she is getting on the boat, then she is getting on the boat.”
Really? Truly?
That meant I could take the picture on the lid of the box and turn it into a story, any story I wanted.
I stared at the lady and the bridge and boat.
“She is waiting for the boat and she is going to get on it and go far away, to a different country,” I said.
“Well good for her,” said my mother. “Here. Thread this needle for me again.”
I threaded the needle.
“So,” said my mother, “she gets on the boat and goes to a different country and then what?”
I stared at the box.
I realized that anything could happen—anything at all.
I just had to tell it.

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