Ties

It's one of those nights when the curtains are drawn and the chairs are covered in newspapers, books and laundered clothes. I'm in the yellow glow of our living room lights, and my dad stands ironing. There is a silence in the room and one of us needs to fill it. My mother taught me to iron shirts, he says, collars first, then the sleeves, front panels and the back. I watch him as he talks, moving through each stage with hot, precise motions. The most useful thing she ever taught me, he says. I sit on the couch and watch. This is what comes back to me, all these years later, as I stand in front of the mirror and knot my tie. My dad taught me to tie ties, I say to no-one in particular, a Windsor knot, left over right and right over left. Small, neat, sharp knots. I pull it tight against my neck and fold the collar around it. I smooth my jacket and button to the first hole. Always leave one undone, he used to tell me. This is what I learned and carry around with me, this is how I take his presence with me. We may not be perfect, him and I, far from it, rarely we understand each other, but here we meet, and I am grateful for it.