Once upon a time there was a young girl. She was a dreamer, and a collector of moments, words, thoughts, and feelings. She was brave and never understood what people meant when they talked about fear. She was almost jealous of everyone else, that they got to experience the feeling of fear while she didn't, but the way they talked about it reassured her that life was better without it.
She didn't have any friends, only acquaintances, and she was constantly trying to figure out why.
Recently, she had come to the conclusion that it was partially because they simply couldn't relate to her. At least, those few acquaintances that she had couldn't. Maybe someday someone would, but she had settled within herself that that day was a long ways off.
For now, though, she lived with her dreams and her bravery and collected things as companions and was perfectly satisfied.
One day as she was exploring the woods near her house, she stumbled upon an old box. As she did with all old things, the girl stopped to inspect this box. It was decorated with muddy leaves accidentally stuck onto it by what appeared to be a long time living in the woods. The box was small and light enough to be held in her arms, but would be hard to hide in the brush until she could come back later. Her options stood before her: leave the box in the open and risk it being found by another human or animal, or take it back with her and deal with others' curiosity. "First," she said to herself, "I should find a way to open this." The bottom appeared to be weakly attached to the sides, so she found a rough, flat pebble nearby to wedge into the corners and pry open the box with.
Surprisingly, after only a minute of pressing and wiggling the rock into the corners and bottom edges of the box, the box fell apart in her hands.
Pocketing the rock to add to her collection (she did, in fact, collect concrete objects as well as abstract ones), she carefully laid the contents of the box out on a nearby patch of sun. There was a small journal no bigger than her hand, a tarnished silver chain necklace, a tiny sand dollar that couldn't have been bigger than a quarter, and another box inside. The box was smaller, a bronzey-copper colored metal, and had engraved nature scenes on every side.
She cautiously ran her fingers across the aged copper box and couldn't decide what to do next. She almost treasured the secret the box held more than she could treasure what might be inside it, and she had a suspicion that it was one of the many things in life that was best when accepted as-is.
With that, she tucked the box into the crook of her elbow and headed back out of the woods, tracing for herself a new path (as she did every time she visited these woods). Before she reached the edge of the woods, the girl stepped out of her own mind just long enough to realize she had left the journal, necklace, and sand dollar back in the woods. She paused, unsure whether they were worth going back for or not. After all, she hadn't inspected the journal to see what, if anything, was written inside. However, after a few moments of deliberation she decided the box's mystery drawing her was stronger than that of the journal, and she would risk never knowing about it, if it meant she got time to sit secluded with the box and open it. She continued on her path out of the woods and to her house.
Instead of heading to her room, though, she meandered with drifting thoughts to the barn. Precariously clenching the box under her right arm, she clambered up the ladder to her Space. It, of course, smelled like a barn, but welcomed her with the warm familiarity of a place she had spent many hours thinking and imagining. Upon reaching the top of the ladder, she felt around the dim space for her box of matches and lit the antique oil lamp. Though there were still several hours of daylight left, the barn kept the light out and she needed the lamp's light to see by, plus it made the small upper section of the barn seem more intimate and secretive.
She was, for no reason, nervous that someone would come upon her and want to share in her box's secrets. This strange sensation, almost akin to fear, was one she rarely experienced and didn't know how to process. As she pulled the ladder up with her to ensure no one would disturb her, the girl got a sudden chill that trembled through her body and out her fingertips. Somehow she knew it was not a chill from the cool temperature outside or in the barn, but rather something related to the box. She sat Indian style and set this mysterious copper box on her crossed calves, holding it gingerly. That odd cold feeling had not left her when the chill did, and before the suspense of the closed box could even build up, she had opened it.
For some reason she had expected the chill to dissipate when she opened the box, but it only took deeper hold. She looked down into the box, stunned. An abstract fog had come over her and she was in a daze, aware of what was happening but not understanding it. The box held only dried leaves, some partially crushed, at first glance. Dazedly pushing the leaves around in the box to see if there were any other contents, she found two heavy buttons as dark as black onyx. She picked them up and held them between thumb and forefinger, feeling a weight settle in her chest. There was something about these buttons that was changing her, something about them that was irresistible but needed to be resisted.
In her daze, she decided these buttons belonged on her shirt, and she began the short trek down the ladder, out the barn, and across the backyard to her house. Once inside she slipped into her mother's closet, where the sewing table was kept, and pulled out a seam ripper, needle, and thread. Carefully using the seam ripper to cut the threads and remove two of her current shirt's buttons, she worked stealthily, acutely aware of any other noises in the house. Before too long, she had replaced her shirt's buttons with the new onyx buttons and was replacing the sewing tools in their storage drawer.
She closed the closet door and traipsed back down to her room, peering out hallway windows as she passed them as if she were on the lookout for intruders in her yard. Though still dazed, she knew that this uncertainty and suspicion within her meant something was awry. "What if this box belongs to someone else and I'll get in trouble for taking it?" she pondered. "Or what if this odd feeling I got when I opened the box never goes away?" Her mind quickly created absurd scenarios that played out in her mind and made more "what if" questions spin about.
She continued in her fog for the rest of the day and evening, unbothered by anyone else. After a night of restless sleep, she awoke the next morning and headed to school. As usual, she kept to herself and silently observed her acquaintances engage in their boisterous greeting and social interactions. Suddenly she felt a small finger tapping her on the shoulder- but surely she must be mistaken, no one talked to her at school- and turned around.
There stood a classmate of hers- a frail boy with dark circles under his eyes but a hopefulness on his face that made the rest of him seem happy too.
"Hi, Alexandra."
She was shocked. It had been so long since she had heard her name spoken, especially by someone other than her parents, that she didn't quite know what to say in return.
A "hello" eeked out somehow, and she tried to follow it up with a polite smile, though she was nervous to engage in conversation.
"How are you today? You seem different. What did you do this weekend?"
Before she could even respond, he had continued with his enthusiastic but unobtrusive conversation. He didn't seem to be bothered by her silence and continued jabbering on and asking unanswered questions as they strode to their school room. Once inside, he finally quieted and turned thoughtfully toward her, offering one last remark: "You just seem afraid and I hope everything is ok." And with that, he slid into his desk and nodded solemnly before breaking eye contact.
It was like she had been walking through autumn without realizing, then suddenly stepped on a dry and crunchy leaf. She looked around her and became aware, suddenly, that she WAS afraid.
THIS IS FEAR! She thought, triumphantly at first, then with less excitement.
This is fear. I dread conversation, I have a suspicious feeling of being followed, I can barely find words to express myself anymore. Once she realized it was fear she was finally experiencing, the fog began to lift, but still felt like it was hanging at eyebrow-level, like a hair that gets stuck in your eyelash and somehow impairs a great deal of your vision.
She scooted through the school day, as she usually did, paying little attention to anything but her own dancing thoughts.
There were many new thoughts, now, that included fear. It brought a darkness on her mind and day that was discomforting and hard to see past, but she quickly learned- as she assumed most humans had by this time in their lives- to push these fearful thoughts to the side and focus on other things.
Soon enough, the school day was over and she found her frail- dare she say- friend! walking out beside her.
"Hey there. How'd you do with the math stuff today? I'm not too good at math but today I did ok."
She looked at him curiously as he jabbered on, oblivious to his own eagerness in conversation. He seemed to be free from fear, as she used to be, or at least in this moment he was. She interrupted him timidly, finally gaining back the bravery to speak to this new friend.
"Why did you decide to talk to me today?"
"You looked scared."
"That's it?"
"Well. Yeah..."
He hesitated, his eyes drifted away from her and caught on the black buttons, then darted back up to her, his face suddenly alert.
"You never seemed scared before until today."
Surely, she thought, he couldn't really tell the difference. After all, she couldn't even remember his name (and had been avoiding having to use it because of that fact), so there was no way he had paid enough attention to her to notice something like that.
They walked on in silence for a ways, Alexandra turning these questions over in her mind, and The Boy Whose Name She Couldn't Remember contentedly kicking pebbles in his path. When they reached the end of his driveway- it was just off the main road- they stopped and faced each other.
Almost as if he had been waiting for her to look him in the eyes before he let his words spill out, suddenly the lock had turned and he whispered urgently: "I know those buttons. They were mine once."
Puzzled, she stood in the silence, in the hopeful yet somber embrace of his dark eyes. He continued, "You found the box, didn't you?"
"Yes," was the only answer she could find. All the explanations or questions that might have tumbled from her lips sat locked up, too big to exit her body.
"We should talk about it. Will your parents let you stay here for a little while?"
She nodded her response, and he led her through the chain-link fence into his backyard, to a rickety swing set.
They sat in more silence, once again shoulder to shoulder (she usually found it easiest to talk to people in this position), and swung lazily, peeling off the rust of the swing's chain. The weight that had settled in her chest yesterday, she realized, had fully returned. There was a tightness in the pit of her stomach, a tremor starting in her body, a chill that, like yesterday, was caused by something deeper than temperatures.
It was obvious to her that this was fear: the weighted down feeling that meant she could no longer fly whenever she wished. The knowledge that anytime, without warning, something could happen to knock her back down.
In attempt to throw the weight off she found the energy to strongly ask, "Would you tell me about the buttons?" and shift her head ever-so-slightly to see his reaction.
He smiled, which surprised her, inhaled, and let his words flow out with his exhalation: "Well, like I said, they were mine. I found them just as you did, in a box abandoned in the middle of nowhere. For me, that was by a river I was wading in during a family vacation. For you, it was the woods, right?"
Again, he didn't stop for her response. "I don't know where they come from, but I think they pass from person to person. At least from what I can tell, they do. After me, they passed to Cora- you know Cora, from school? She's a year older than us. She found them where I had buried them, far off the hiking trail at the nature center. They made her afraid too, but she won't talk about it. She almost never got them off her shirt, but when she finally did she didn't recover like I did. I never see her anymore, except at school, and she ignores me there."
The information was almost too much to process. Though she was a dreamer, this current Button Owner had never been one for mystics or fairy tales- she much preferred realistic dreams. And this, well, it simply couldn't be real.
"You mean the buttons stick to your shirt?"
"Didn't you find it weird that you wanted to sew them on in the first place? Yes, of course they stick!" She was agitated that he said this as though she was dumb for not having thought about it.
"They're made of black onyx, Alexandra, and of fear."
She almost laughed at him. This frail boy must be trying to pull a joke on her.
"Made of fear?"
"Yes. I know it's weird. But try to cut them off and you'll know."
"Fine, give me scissors."
Without a word, he stepped off the swing and jogged inside, returning seconds later with a small pair of trimming scissors.
She tried, as he watched, to cut off the buttons, but it was like threading the eye of a needle- every time she thought she had it ready to snap, then closed the scissors and realized it had done nothing. After struggling with it, she looked up at him helplessly, knowing he must be right.
His only response was a pitying smile.
"What did you do to cut yours off?" She asked hopefully, sure that there was some way to do it.
"I loved."
"What?"
"I loved. It's the only thing that beats fear, or at least that's what I'd always heard. So I tried it and it worked."
"What do you mean?" she questioned. Once again, she was befuddled and sure that this was all an odd dream.
"I just decided it was worth a shot to love people more. It was funny cause at first my mom thought it was weird. She didn't know what I was doing or why but she just said I was acting differently and she didn't like it- I was a kid, I needed to go have fun and play and not be so serious."
Things started clicking in her head as he spoke.
"When I started trying to love more, I just looked around at what I liked about people- even strangers. They help each other, even when it isn't convenient. I like that. They say good things, even when it takes some effort to find a good thing to say (our teacher does that one a lot- have you noticed how she only says good stuff? It makes you feel good, and smart, and like you can do it, even if you said something wrong at first). So then I started doing it. Most people didn't notice or care, but it made me feel better because I wasn't thinking about myself as much anymore. After a few days of it, the buttons just fell off."
The eyebrow-level fog was all at once melted away.
"I don't know, maybe that wasn't the key to it, but I told Cora the same thing and it made hers fall off too. She decided she didn't like it after her buttons fell off though, I guess cause it was too much work. I think that's why she doesn't talk to me anymore."
Alexandra nodded. It did sound like a lot of work, especially for someone like herself who kept away from people for the most part.
But this weight in her chest was making it hard to breathe, she was constantly afraid, and she had recognized how tired she was of keeping to herself. Maybe it would be nice to love. Or maybe it would hurt. It sounded like a risk, all the change and involvement with people, and it didn't sound easy.
"It isn't easy," he said, as if he had read her mind, "and it isn't always fun because it makes you really tired and people don't really love back much. But it's good."
They were still swinging and picking at the rust, and as Alexandra thought, she pumped her legs back and forth, swinging higher and higher, until it made the rickety swingset jump and she was feeling her favorite sensation: the apex of the swing. The moment when the swing reaches the top of its journey and pauses, weightless, suspended in a laughter-silvered space only visited by happy children and relieved adults. It lasts milliseconds, or less, before gravity pulls the swing's occupant back down to reality, but the part Alexandra liked best about this sensation was that even gravity couldn't stop it from recurring.
She swung, leaving her newfound fears and worries at the bottom of the swingset and revisiting the sacred high place as much and as quickly as she could. He must have known she needed it, or had a mutual love for that weightless sensation, because he let her swing and didn't interrupt her occasional laughter.
On the whim that maybe, possibly, loving people could feel something like this, she slowed herself and then stopped. Twisting her swing to face him, Sir Frail-but-Hopeful, she pushed past the fear before she had time to let it build and spat her words into the warm space between them.
"I don't remember your name. Or Cora. I never pay attention to anyone so I don't know if I can love but I've got to try because I can't stand this weight in my chest and tightness in my stomach any longer. I don't listen in school so I didn't know that our teacher always said good things. But I'm going to try. I'm going to start here and say thank you. You're my first friend and I am glad you let me be silent sometimes. I'm glad my first friend is someone who knows how to love. That's the best I have and I'm sorry there isn't more and I'm afraid it isn't enough but I'm hoping it might be."
Her words didn't just hang there, as she expected them to, but seemed to waft around her and warm her. For the first time since opening the box, Alexandra felt warm again.
The boy with hopefulness in his face looked at her and said, "It is enough. And my name is Isaac."
Relief danced around. Warmth existed once again.
Her parents would be wondering where she was, so Alexandra took the relief and warmth with her as she silently hugged Isaac and walked home. It wouldn't be easy, but it would make life weightless again, so she started, with every step, thinking up ways to love.
