By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2013

Three sisters, one brother.

Four days to empty
what took forty years to fill.

The kitchen draws Ruth first.

She unwraps the good plates
no one ever used,
counts the Christmas china,
runs her finger along
the rooster pitcher’s chipped beak.

“She saved everything.”

David’s in the garage,
sorting tools into piles.

Keep, donate, trash.

He holds their father’s level,
the bubble still true
after thirty years.

Sets it in “keep”
without discussion.

Anna takes the bedroom,
folding sweaters that smell
like White Shoulders perfume,
finding Mass cards tucked in drawers,
a rosary in every pocket.

The youngest, Beth,
sits on the living room floor
with photo albums.

1973. 1987. 1999.

Their faces getting older
while she turns younger
and younger pages.

---

By evening
they converge in the kitchen.

Pizza boxes on the counter
where birthday cakes once stood.

Ruth holds up a tin.

“Her button box.”

They gather close.

Hundreds of buttons
pour onto the table.

Pearl. Wood. Brass.

A tiny elephant.

Two from David’s Cub Scout shirt.

“I played with these when I was sick,”
Anna says.
“Sorted them by color.”

“Size,” says David.
“I did size.”

“I made families,”
Beth whispers.
“Gave them names.”

They sit in the kitchen
where homework was checked,
where coffee perked at dawn,
where she sat reading papers
until two months ago.

Four adults
passing buttons hand to hand.

Not talking about
tomorrow’s divisions.

Just matching sets.

Finding pairs.

Making small necessary order
from what remains.