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Dot’s button tin and library memories both resist any sensible system of classification.
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Dot remembers a library visitor asking for a book with a blue cover. There might have been a boat. Or a dog. Dot asked what happened in it, and the visitor described a story she had never heard. Together they found a different book, with a green cover and no boat at all. He returned a week later to say it was excellent. Beside her hospital bed, Dot has a paperback whose cover is mostly hidden by a knitting pattern. Classification, she says, has its limits.
A large amber-coloured button sits in Dot’s palm. Her daughter brought the tin to the hospital, thinking it might contain a spare cardigan button. It contains nearly everything except that. Dot remembers a winter coat belonging to a neighbour, a child’s costume and a dress altered twice. One button has no story she can retrieve. She likes it anyway. She places it beside the others without inventing a history. Not everything in a collection has to explain itself.
Dot begins an index for the button tin: shiny, useful, too peculiar to discard. It does not improve the search for the cardigan button. Her daughter suggests colour; Dot suggests tea. They compromise by separating the small buttons from the large ones. Later, Dot puts the unexplained amber button at the top. The paperback waits on the bedside table, still wrapped in its knitting pattern. Both collections are ready to be opened again, and neither has become entirely orderly.