Found sheathed in paper or plastic and coiled loosely around the necks of bread bags, produce bundles, and the occasional errant cable, the twist tie is a fastener of modest ambition. It does not click, snap, or lock. It simply twists, obediently, into whatever shape the hand demands, and holds that shape with a stubbornness disproportionate to its size. Uncoiled, it reveals a thin wire core, usually copper or steel, wrapped in paper that has already begun to fray at the first twist and given up entirely by the third.
Its afterlife is longer than its working life. Once removed from its bag, it tends to accumulate in drawers, in the bottoms of purses, in the crevices of junk containers, retired but never quite discarded, on the theory that it might someday be needed again for a task no one can specify. It bends easily and permanently, holding the memory of every twist it has ever endured, a small metal record of prior use. There is something almost touching in its willingness to be reshaped indefinitely, asking only that it not be thrown away, a request that, judging by the drawers of the world, is almost universally honored.