There are 64 acorns my grand mother has collected, sitting in a small white dish. There are 64 different acorns. (And not one looks the same as an acorn from our oak tree in Maine) Some have holes, others cracks, a few are semi-crushed. Most are perfect. Some, with the stems, look like tiny goblets for fairies. I am surprised by how soft and smooth they feel. Cream bottom extends into brown upper and fine as hair lines wrap around. A large, oval individual  feels slightly waxy to the finger tips. The delicate and the humble with potential to grow into something lasting and grand amazes.