Once again, I discovered this button.
In 1991, during the climax of a lonely self-pity party, I buried it on a hill overlooking the northern reaches of the Appalachian Mountains. About 8 years later I climbed that same, recently clear-cut hill. There the button lay, brillant in the sun amongst the greyed wood chips. I pocketed it, musing on the possible psychological meanings.
Fast-forward to the time a desperate someone broke into my apartment to steal laundry change, second-hand CDs and an old laptop. I suspected this orange button lay hidden in a stolen backpack used to hide the ill-gotten goods. But last month I found it in an unloved jewelry box. This button entered my life 17 years ago. It follows me around.