Ever since I abandoned it in the store room of my house, Tringy has been sitting there, in the shadowy attic, gathering dust. Years have passed, but it has been sitting there, unclothed, because I gave its heavy polyester black zipper bag to a college friend who forgot to return it. And then the college ended and Tringy was left here all alone, with no support whatsoever to cling to, no loved one to latch onto in life’s challenging times. Except me, of course. Its curvilinear model-like body, though as toned as it has always been, has now turned into a playground where dust motes gather every now and then in “gossamer” gatherings, especially when I leave the house for a long family vacation. Yet, even after all these years, Tringy hasn’t lost its irresistible charm that turns me into a besotted poet each time I look at it. As I put my slippered feet into the store room, I cannot help but feel too enchanted to not blush. As I behold Tringy’s lissome, string-slinging neck leaning on...