They weren’t bunny ears. They were pig’s ears, or dog’s ears. Actually, they weren’t ears at all. I pulled the laces apart and held one in either hand. I tried again: over, under, pull. This was promising. Under, over, around, in, under—no, over. I made the ears again. They were too small. I let the failed knot dangle as I sprinted away. The tangled mess, of course, came undone. The laces whipped around my ankles and the aglets crunched underfoot. My left shoe flew off and I scrambled to jam it back on. Too late: a hand grazing my back had tagged me. I was “it.”
In a week I almost got it right. On the kitchen floor, hunched and squinting like a jeweler, I crafted a gorged triple knot with minuscule ears. Voilá. I stood up. My dad frowned. His knees popped as he squatted down and pulled the knot apart with a single hooked finger. With his surgeon’s hands, he reassembled the laces in seconds. The knot was as small and hard as a cherry pit. The ears sprouted into wide loops that almost brushed the floor. He completed an identical masterpiece on the other foot. “If you tie the first knot right,” my dad said, “you’ll never need to double knot.” For the next month, I didn’t dare touch my dad’s work. I slipped my shoes off and on, careful not to toy with the laces.
I still double-knot my running shoes. A perfect first knot is a distant dream. I’ve gotten close, but I can never quite trust it. A single knot is hubris. A single knot is a skinned knee and a shattered phone. I yearn for the security of a velcro strap. But they don’t sell Twinkle Toes in size 11 men’s. Trust, I’ve looked. I’ve settled for the adult alternatives: chelsea boots and loafers. They mope in dour neutrals. They have to be broken in over weeks, not cinched up in an instant. Ask me to play a game of tag and I’ll decline. My shoes no longer afford me the luxury of play.
In summers too hot for leather, I waddle around in Crocs one size too big. I meander along beaches and wade through streams. I take my time. One waning afternoon on a barren North Carolina islet, my friend challenged me to a race from seaside to sound side. I kicked off my Crocs and bounded along the dunes and skirted patches of long beachgrass. I jumped into the shallow water of the sound. The oyster bed tore at my soles and blood plumed in the water. I hobbled onto the sand. I lifted my legs into the sky. My feet throbbed with deep, dripping canyons.
On the skiff ride back to the rental, I ruined a pirate-themed beach towel. Its treasure map now charted the violent campaign of a blood-crazed seaman. We tied up the skiff and I limped up to the dock, where my dad was waiting. He peeled away the sodden cloth and began with a needle and thread. He looped and looped and pulled tight. When the final stitch was tied and cut, I marveled at my dad’s work: a dozen perfect knots along each foot. Brand new feet, just my size and laced up tight. I could run and jump and prance.
I placed one foot on the floor. The sutures roared.
