with the new tie until my father's face surfaced behind me.
Reaching in front of my chest, he led
the red and blue silk around and
under, under and
around in some mysterious
pattern. Nothing to a tie, he said.
For those few seconds, his big arms were my arms—
I watched the thick fingers
working the tie, each time a little
too short or too long.
He leaned his face alongside mine,
and I smelled a sharp scent of Old Spice, heard the hiss of sighs
through his nose, like a car tire losing air,
as he focused on the broad wrinkled pillar
that would not tie.
Arms that hadn't surrounded me for years
now wrapped me like ribbons. His elbows swung
like rhythmic pendulums, and
for and instant it looked like we could have been
dancing, so I stood still,
unable to pull away from the rough kiss of whiskers
against my smooth cheek.
He finally finished a crooked knot, slid it
up to my tender throat, too tight, too tight.
Just right, he said.
Then I understood
that being an adult meant
you looked a little older, but you couldn't breathe.
I watched my father
back away in the mirror and
disappear, and all I could see was myself,
the knot at my throat, a soft, angled
embrace of cloth.
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