Loss of clear plastic aglets means fraying rainbow hearts. The girl cries when her mother unthreads the grungy shoelaces from the eyelets of the dirt and grass stained Converse with holes in their yellowed soles. The shoes are thrown in the black garbage bin, unsalvageable. The laces, thrown in a bowl of Orange Dawn and hot water, soak undisturbed for half an hour. The mother scrubs until mud and grime rise out of the laces, dirtying lukewarm sudsy water. She hangs the soggy strings over the shower rod to dry before she leaves her children with a sitter. The girl checks back every hour to see if the fraying strands have yet to dry. The mother returns from cashiering at the local convenience store and takes down the laces, trims the fraying ends, and cuts the remnants into four equal parts. She braids shoelace scraps up and under and over and under until all of their freedom is woven away. The mother sets her daughter's thin pale arm on her lap and ties the braided shoelace around the giddy girl's wrist.
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Fragmented
Short StoryA collection of story fragments that tell a larger story. These little fictional memories are just for fun and have only been self-edited. Content warning: alcohol
