The Button Jar’s Band

From its shelf, the button jar watched two children look at each other and wonder what to play.

I was a glass jar, round in the middle and a little dusty on top. Inside me were buttons of all colors and sizes: tiny green ones, big brown ones, white ones with four holes, and one bright yellow button that Wren liked best.

Wren sat cross-legged on the living room rug. Arlo, the new neighbor, sat across from her. His grown-up was talking with Wren’s grown-up nearby, but the children had been left to choose a game.

“Do you want to play pretend dragons?” Wren asked.

Arlo looked at his socks. “Maybe. I don’t know how to be a dragon.”

“You just say ‘roar,’” Wren said.

Arlo tried a tiny roar. “Rrr.” It sounded more like a hiccup.

Wren giggled, then covered her mouth. Arlo smiled, but he still looked shy.

“I have a button jar,” Wren said. She glanced up at me. “We could use the buttons.”

Arlo leaned forward. “What can buttons do?”

“Lots of things,” said Wren. “This yellow one can be a treasure.”

“I want to hold the treasure,” Arlo said.

“I found it first,” Wren replied.

The yellow button rolled against the glass with a little tick. I knew that sound. It was the sound of a game getting stuck before it even started.

Wren and Arlo looked at the jar. Then they looked at each other. Neither one spoke.

I wished I could clear my throat. A jar’s throat, I should explain, is its narrow neck. But I had no throat for talking, so I gave a small rattle instead.

The buttons shuffled together. A blue one bumped a red one. A small white button nudged the yellow one, as if saying, “There may be more than one way to play.”

Wren reached for the jar, then paused. Arlo tucked his hands beneath his knees.

I waited on my shelf, full of colors, sizes, and possibilities. The room waited too. Even the rug seemed to be holding still, hoping the children would find a game that belonged to both of them.

Wren lifted me carefully from the shelf and set me on the rug. The buttons clacked together like a handful of tiny dishes.

“Let’s make a treasure hunt,” she said.

“I want to be the one who finds the yellow button,” Arlo answered.

“But I want to hide it,” said Wren.

They both reached toward the jar. Their fingers stopped just short of touching. Then each pulled back.

“I don’t know,” Wren mumbled.

“Me neither,” said Arlo.

I gave another little rattle. The buttons rolled and settled. The yellow one sat on top, as bright as a sunny spot on the rug.

Wren studied it. “What if it isn’t a prize?” she asked. “What if it’s a pretend drum that we share?”

Arlo blinked. “A button drum?”

“A very tiny one,” Wren said. “We can tap it gently on the rug. It won’t make a loud sound, but we can pretend.”

Arlo considered this. “I could tap it first, and then you could.”

“And then you again,” Wren said. “We can take turns.”

“Deal.”

Wren tipped a few buttons onto the rug. She sorted the red ones together, the blue ones together, and the green ones together. Arlo helped place the yellow buttons in their own little group. Buttons came in different colors and sizes, and when they were sorted by color, each group looked like a tiny pile of candy—though, as Wren reminded Arlo, buttons were for looking at, not eating.

Wren placed the favorite yellow button between them. Arlo tapped it lightly against the rug. “Dum.”

Wren tapped it next. “Dum-dum.”

“That’s the beat,” Arlo said. He chose a big blue button and tapped it softly with one finger. “Bup!”

Wren picked a little red button. “Pip!”

They made a band. Yellow gave the slow drumbeat. Blue went “bup,” red went “pip,” and green buttons made a quiet “tik-tik” when the children tapped near them.

Soon Arlo was sitting closer. Wren was smiling without hiding her smile. Their little band played a grand song about a sleepy turtle who wore a hat made of buttons. The turtle marched very slowly, then forgot where it was going and sat down for a snack.

“That turtle is just like my grandpa,” Arlo said.

Wren laughed. I rattled along, proud to be the band’s whole concert hall.

The button band played the turtle’s song once more, a little slower this time. Yellow went “dum,” blue went “bup,” red went “pip,” and the green buttons answered with their tiny “tik-tik.”

Arlo made the turtle walk across the rug. Wren gave it a button hat, then changed the hat so it sat over one eye.

“The turtle can’t see,” Arlo said.

“It can see with its other eye,” Wren told him.

“Good. Then it can find its way to bed.”

The turtle took three slow steps and curled up beside the button jar. Wren and Arlo quieted their tapping until the last little “tik” rested on the rug.

Wren picked up the yellow button. For a moment, she held it in her palm. Then she placed it back among the other yellow ones.

“It was fun when we shared it,” she said.

Arlo nodded. “Next time, we can make the turtle a whole band.”

“Maybe it can have a tiny hat for every song,” Wren said.

The grown-ups smiled from their chairs. Arlo’s grown-up said it was time to head home. Arlo stood, and Wren stood too. They waved goodbye at the doorway, already smiling as if the next visit had a place waiting for it.

Wren gathered the buttons and returned me to my shelf. The yellow ones rested together, the blue ones beside them, and all the other colors settled into their places. I held them close, every size and shade in its own cheerful jumble.

The living room grew quiet. The rug was smooth again, and the turtle’s button hat had gone back into the jar. I remembered Wren’s first shy question, Arlo’s tiny dragon hiccup, and the small song they had made by taking turns.

On my shelf, I sat full of buttons and the memory of a very small, very cheerful band. Outside, the house settled into bedtime, and inside me, the buttons stayed still until another day called for a game.