When my father would come home, he would settle on the couch in front of the TV. And sometimes I would wander in to be with him, sometimes just because whatever he was watching was also what I wanted to watch, sometimes just to see that he was home. And if wasn’t already done, he would ask me to unite his shoes and pull them off.
He used to wear these stiff loafers that later became trendy tennis shoes. And I used to struggle with the tight knot he would make. But at the end they always came off and I always saw my father on the nights he came home while I was awake.
“Dad,” I used to groan even as I set to do it. “Seriously,” I would scold as I pulled on the last loop.
I’ve never tied my own shoes. Or I probably have but I don’t remember. I remember retying my shoes because I would think about how every time my dad did it they never came undone.
I am 20 years old and my father still always watches my feet in case I need him. To tie my shoes.
