Laces

By Peter Bowden


The boy sat on the edge of his bed, his freshly shined shoes beneath him, the soft light of a Sunday morning cutting through the lace curtains. His mother had buffed the scuffs from the leather, each swirl of the cloth a reminder of her gentle hands, the smell of polish lingering in the air like the incense that would soon fill the church. But as he tugged the laces tight, the right one snapped, fraying into a burst of thin, stubborn fibers, its long loyalty finally spent. He sat frozen, staring at the broken cord, the panic of tardiness rising like the slow swell of the organ.

With a child’s ingenuity and a touch of desperation, he pulled the ends together, knotting them in a hasty, uneven twist, threading the frayed tips back through the polished eyelets. The laces stretched thin, holding their breath as he worked, his fingers trembling with the fear of another break. He pulled them tight again, the knot hidden beneath the tongue, the tension felt with every small movement of his toes. He stood, testing the fit, and heard the front door creak open, his father’s deep voice calling, the echo of Sunday urgency in the hallway.

They walked to the church, his shoes clicking against the cracked pavement, each step a test of his handiwork. The laces held, though he could feel the pressure of the makeshift knot, a small, secret weight he carried with him up the worn steps of the old stone church. He bent his head as they entered, the cool air of the nave washing over him, the scent of polished wood and waxed floors mingling with his mother’s lingering polish. And as the organ swelled, the knot beneath his foot felt like a whispered promise, a reminder of the small, fraying threads that held his world together.


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