Sarah E. Moffett

Today was the first time in twenty years I have watched my father get ready. I was reading Steinbeck in a musty hotel chair in Monterey when he walked out of the hotel bathroom clad in a white t-shirt and olive slacks. Both were pressed. He pulled up his pants, strung his black belt, rubbed his face and started shaving before he noticed I was watching.

“So?” he asked.

I just smiled back at him. We were hiding in the hotel from the bride, the flowers, the family, and, most importantly, the inevitable. We called him the groom for short.

There was nothing else to say, so he went back to being himself. I wasn’t surprised to see it was the exact same as when I was eight. He methodically shaved twice, thoroughly brushed his teeth once, and viciously combed his hair. When he was done, he put on his starched shirt with a little boy grin, wryly observing, “it’s a big day. I get to wear two pressed shirts.” One was for the family luncheon, the second one was for the wedding. I laughed at him. He had a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his eyes. He buttoned the shirt from the top down and tucked it in with military precision, leaving four buttons showing and absolutely no creases anywhere except around his eyes.

“Think today is a two or three handkerchief day?” he asked as he fit his wallet, comb and chapstick into his pockets.

“Three,” I answered.

He nodded and folded three fresh, white hankies into his back pocket. You couldn’t even tell they were there. After five minutes of looking for his pocket knife and mumbling about where Rachel put it, he gave up and sat down next to me to pull on his black shoes. He smelled like soap and time.

“You know, I wonder if these were the shoes that I got married in,” he said happy at the memory as he laced the left one up.

“Surely you haven’t had them all this time?”

“Oh, I only wear them on Sundays. I’ve had them resoled three times. Why not?”

And then we left for the luncheon, for the dressing, for the wedding and then for whatever comes after a daughter and sibling is married off. But I remember how he got ready, and for some reason, it meant everything to me.

I suspect it has something to do with knowing that the more things change, the more our fathers remain our fathers.

 P.S. She got married.

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