I feel his fingers brush my shell as his hand reaches into the closet and closes around me,

enveloping me in a hug only a best friend can give. I crinkle in the room’s brightness. His thumb

rubs back and forth to soothe me. We only go out on the most important of occasions. My mind

races to imagine what it might be today.

I remember our first time together. We stood at the end of the aisle, my knot crisp and

my face ironed smooth. I shivered in delight when his heart skipped a beat as he saw her. That

night, I was ungratefully half undone and tossed aside onto a chair. But the caress of his hands on

my fabric the next day inspired me to forgive him for that bit of nonsense.

Then there was the interview. He was comparing me to a navy-blue fellow parading its

burgundy stripes like a bird attracting a mate. Disgraceful. She had the good sense to insist I

would bring him luck if he wore me. Needless to say, we did superbly.

What came next… the graduation or the birthday? His cake read 60, but I was still a

young 35 then. She pulled on me gently to draw him near for a kiss. I’m sure I remember it right

because she tore my bar tack and exposed the edge of my tipping. I was so embarrassed. Or was

that at the retirement? 

My memories are more faded and jumbled than his sock drawer. (My months in there left

me a bit green-tinged until I aired out.) Then there were those years in storage. A plastic box at

the top of the closet. Rolled in another drawer. Back to hanging. The apartment. The house. The

care home.

I dutifully remained on alert wherever he needed me to be, always patient as I awaited

our next mission together. But the time between our adventures grew longer as each anniversary

passed.

I am old now, swinging limply as he walks. I shake myself to remove the years of dust. I

must look my best for him. I put on a smile and it renews my faded face to the radiant blackness

of my youth. Giving my tail a playful snap, I immediately regret it as I pull my slip stitch. Have to

remember I’m not a young one anymore.

Reaching the mirror, he throws me across his shoulders and adjusts my length. He pulls a

bit too far to the left, so I slide around and even myself out. He pulls me back. I slide again and

we engage in a momentary tug-o-war. 

His unsteady fingers fumble as he crosses and passes me behind his hand. I concentrate

on keeping steady, but I can’t keep up my strength and I flop back. He pulls in desperation and

his thumb catches on my keeper loop. A redo.

I momentarily blush magenta and hope he doesn’t notice that I’ve forgotten how to tie

myself. We ready ourselves to try again. A cross. A loop. Up from the back. Through—

My tail slips from his fingers and the loop breaks. Another try. 

His fingers adjust me flat and he begins the cross. Tears splash my shell and I bend up in

surprise. I fall from his hands as he sits heavily on the bed, trapping me between his knee and

elbow. 

I wriggle free and observe him. He’s cried before, but this isn’t the same. Not to worry.

Any moment she will walk in to help and when he sees us together again, he’ll cheer right up. 

I wait. The ticking wall clock lulls me into a stupor. Eventually, the man stirs. She still

hasn’t come. It’s up to us. 

Bracing my every fiber, I perform the motions in sync with him. Cross. Loop. Up.

Through. He pulls gently and I follow the lead of his dance. Adjusting my knot, he folds down his

collar and we face the mirror.

He wipes away the final tears from his face and mine. His tired wrinkles mirror my own. I

read his expression clearly—

It’s the last time he will tie me. I know this; he knows this. We stare at each other in

understanding. From the first tying to this very last, we’ve been together, and we will remain so.

He smooths my shell and straightens my knot. We’re ready.