Needles have eyes, buttons have eyes, memories have eyes, but not to see with. The eyes of memories only look one way, in their own direction, they are not accurate, and what they see changes without even the need to blink.

Such a tender utterance to replace a button, the use of tired eyes, the lateness of the
hour, the needle pricks, tiny work for work-worn fingers. My mother had beautiful hands, slender, long, delicate. Grief changes perspective on even the most mundane of things. A tear in my eye, a thread through the needle, a needle through the button, sewing on the memory.

My parents are gone, but I can stack some memories in a packing box so they can be
shaken, so they might rattle, the tin opened and poured out at will and one chosen, just the right size and colour.

— Button Tin, Julia Kantic