Searching for a lost key the other day, I reached to the higher of the two surfaces which we call The Keeping Shelf.  I discovered a little china container that once belonged to my mother which I had not seen in a while.  I lifted it down and set it on the dining room table, admiring its delicate decorations.  I lifted it again, and realized that something rested inside of it.  I removed the lid, holding the egg gently in the palm of my hand.

Inside I found a packet of embroidered labels.  I sank into a chair and recalled the hopefulness with which I had ordered these tags.  I meant to give hand-knitted or crocheted Christmas gifts to everyone in my family and all of our friends, the Christmas that my first husband and I lived in Newton County, Arkansas.  I have been remembering those days in the cold mountains, Chester on tour, me stuck in a town of 600 with frozen pipes and no work.

I touched the butterly on the fragile lid, noticing a layer of dust and a slight scent, like talcum powder, which my mother must have kept in this little box long ago.  I recalled my father handing this container to me, wrapped in one of my mother’s handkerchiefs, just before I got into my car to drive back to Kansas City after her funeral.  This little butterfly has been with me for 29 years, since a few days after my mother’s death on 21 August 1985.  It has no chips, no nicks, just a fine layer of dusty powder, with the lingering scent  so reminescent of my mother’s bedroom.

I put the lid carefully back and returned it to the Keeping Shelf,  leaving the tiny labels inside of it.  I might use them some day.