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I have a button box, a handy place where one keeps all of the extra buttons that come with new clothes. It’s as essential as the drawer of random socks that most households maintain, in the optimistic belief that the lost socks will be found some day. The button box concept is rather simple: When you lose a button off your favorite sweater, or your husband begs you to sew several buttons back on his button-down shirt, you know just where to find them. It also stores miniscule amounts of thread or yarn from purchased clothing so that one can expertly mend the hole that emerged when one’s sweater got caught in a desk drawer. Yes, there are some idealistic notions here.

I can remember my mom’s button collection, kept inside a dark gray metal box, which wasn’t the most attractive sewing container in the world, but quite functional. As a child, I remember it being a treasure trove; it was so enjoyable to gather up buttons in my hands and let them slither back into the box, or sew them on to random scraps of fabric.

For some odd reason on a late June morning, I decided to forgo the joys of a brilliant day filled with sunshine and a perfect breeze — and the long list of things I really had to get done — to organize the button box. I happened upon it while searching for old-fashioned sew-on metal snaps for a friend who needed some. The button box seemed an obvious place to look. It appeared that the box had long surpassed its capacity for tiny plastic packets each containing one button, as the lid wouldn’t close and little packets spewed throughout the sewing basket.

Why not wait to undertake this task on a frigid February day? I have no idea.

Yet here I was, surrounded by buttons, which made me think more intentionally about the button box. The first order of business is to snuff out the hypothesis that one would actually go to the button box and find the exact button needed, let alone sew it back on. This also addresses the myth of the sewing basket, although on occasion I have been known to tackle holes in a favorite pair of socks. I believe I can count the number of successful button extractions on one finger, perhaps two.

This begs another question: Why the devoted effort over decades to hold on to every single button? I really have no idea.

I also must confess that I am appalled by the look of some of these buttons. I would never wear something with a knitted white button adorned with an embroidered red flower. Pink buttons? Many pink buttons? I don’t wear pink. Yet pink buttons abound.

I should purge the lot, I thought to myself. I’ll add them to the Goodwill pile, and someone will eagerly purchase them at a very reduced price, happy to add to their vast button collection. But I continued my rote removal of buttons from plastic bags, enjoying the perky little ping as buttons plopped into the box. Then I found a button I recognized from the past — a black velvet one from a favorite coat many moons ago. It swirled so nicely when I wore it and I was sad to see the worn and well-loved coat go. But the extra button remained.

I shifted my perspective a bit, looking more intently at these little memories from the past. There was a plain wooden button that had come from a sweater given to me by my husband, one that resembled his mom’s favorite sweater. A button attached to the cloth remnant from a shirt I bought on a trip to Europe decades ago brought a smile. A bag filled with multi-colored wooden buttons must have been for some abandoned art project. While I didn’t have answers for or memories of the pink buttons nor the knitted white one, it was fun to see these small remnants of my life.

And with significant life events ahead of me, I can easily imagine entertaining a grandchild one day, pulling out the button box and offering up interesting crafts to enjoy. I am sure that s(he) will wonder why Grammy has so many pink buttons. I will shake my head and say: “I have no idea, dear.”

I finished the project just in time to get to my yoga class, though I failed to find a single snap. It felt great to stretch out all of my back and neck muscles, after bending over the button box, not to mention overdosing on gardening the prior day. As I leaned down to roll up my mat after class, I found a single white button smack in the middle of the mat.

Why was there a button on the mat? I have no idea. But I do know that you can’t make this stuff up.