He found a needle on the street the other day, and for a moment the scene felt like a tiny sign of something unsettled in the city. The man laughed softly at the thought, as if to say, finally you’ve adjusted to something, which made him sound cheerfully tired and a touch defeated. News coverage that Easter spoke of places with no room for pins on terraces, bars, hotels, highways, and beaches, a stream of images and headlines that left him uneasy. News and eyes moved through the moment like a slow tide.
The needle, in turn, asked where it belonged. It answered that the inner town, already crowded as it doubled its population, would need patience. The big question lingered: what remains empty so that everything feels full? Houses could stay empty, yes, and perhaps beaches and parades would vanish from the calendar, especially in places far from the action. The sense lingered that in a crowded nation like the United States or Canada, life keeps pushing forward, and sometimes a small, stubborn object slips back into place again. Pins would not travel with a family; they do not fit the rhythm. If something fits one person, it seems to squeeze out everyone else. The needle thought of exile, imagining countries where it might finally belong.
The badge offered a solemn goodbye. The needle watched as the badge moved along, avoiding the crowded main street where cars, bikes, scooters, and pedestrians filled the afternoon air. No needles appeared on terraces or borders today. The question lingered: where does the misfit pin go next? Pins exist on a diet of their own, a mischievous cousin to a safety pin. Bold pins slip into parties where they cannot neatly attach to a dress or jacket. They fit there, but even at a party, they must keep working, because the garment needs them to hold sleeves or collars that would otherwise tear. No one finds a needle; no one is calling it back.
Cities breathe and settle after Holy Week, yet the needle has surrendered. It knows it cannot fit into the fair, the beach, the summer, or the celebrations soon to come. Even at a party centered on cheese or tortilla, or at a gathering of goat or carrot dishes, the needle would be out of place. There are funerals where the needle does not fit, and thus it cannot say goodbye to its owner. A badge on a funeral would not win friends; the absence of someone is never marked by the needle itself. When hesitation betrayed them, a teacher would remind the class, “You pinned him.” Then they threaded needles, which gleamed to illuminate innocence and feed curiosity about the future. Now everything has shifted. Lapel pins carry weight in every pocket and on every jacket. In some South American countries, this simple item is called a brooch, which can feel like a good name for a good pin.