The Button

The button's loose again—

I sewed it back weeks before,

but this morning when I buttoned my coat,

I felt it move.

The thread was already starting to fray.

I could fix it.

Get a needle, make it tight,

do the stitch properly this time,

make it right.

But I didn't.

Instead I just buttoned around it,

let it hang there,

carried this small failure

on my chest.

My partner asked if I'd fix it.

I said soon.

I won't.

Because fixing it would mean

admitting I did it wrong,

that my hands aren't steady,

that I'm the kind of person

who sews a button on

and does it half-assed,

and then lets it come loose,

and then doesn't fix it again.

So I'm wearing this loose button

like permission,

like a small act of surrender,

like proof

that this is how I work—

I mean well.

I just never follow through.

The button will fall off eventually.

And I'll either replace it

or stop wearing the jacket.

And I'll have successfully avoided

the particular shame

of doing something over,

of admitting defeat.