My mother collects used twist ties, carefully straightened and stored upright in an old Vienna Sausage can. Dating back to the ‘60s, her twist ties are ever-waiting, ever-replenished, faithful to any cinching need.
Recently I realized I had carelessly used the last twist tie in my own less-intensive collection. Fighting panic, I pulled my kitchen cabinet drawer out until it teetered to examine its crevices for buried twist ties. I crawled on the floor and scoured the corners of the room, hoping a twist tie lurked there, out of broom’s reach…
I felt a strange, absurd desperation about having used my last twist tie.
Humble twist ties are symbolic of our human experience. They are astoundingly resilient, and ultimately disposed of. In the scheme of things, I’m little more than a wire twisted around the neck of a bag of Wonder Bread, myself.
Crawling and scouring for what was gone, I’d been caught taking for granted the reliable presence of my 80-year old mother, keeper of the world’s best twist-tie collection. I had been assuming permanence where there is none.