The Tie

Richard Jordan

I had never tied a tie until 

my father’s funeral. My older brother 

stood with me at the bathroom mirror 

and coached me through. It’s not so hard, 

he said. He called the knot a Four-in-Hand, 

had learned by watching Dad effortlessly 

manage it while hurrying out the door 

to work. And where had I been? Probably 

glued to Bugs Bunny or the Stooges. I got it 

on the third try, or was close. It would be OK 

to tuck the too-long skinny end into 

my waistband. That’s what Dad would do,
 
my brother said, and we went to show our mother.

At first she reached to straighten it, but then

pulled back. Well, look at you, she said.

That’s just right. I think she even smiled.