I must be twelve or so. We face the bathroom mirror, me in starched white shirt, trying not to squirm, faint frown on my face. He in sleeveless tee, his chest hair abundant, still dark, the last dots
of shaving soap on his chin. He calls the knot a Windsor, holds my hands holding the long end on the left, short end on the right, flipping long over short, looped around, poked up and over the top
tucked in, pulled down, the triangle tightened with thumb and forefinger—all simple, deft, impossible to replicate. He’s not a sad man yet. I’m in training for the world, for being a man like him,
sad only when I study him in the mirror, girding for another day at the appliance store, his hands on the shoulders of his smaller self, prepping me first so I can see how it’s done,
how to tie the tie in a way that allows me to breathe, to not fear the squeeze of being choked. I will, just as he has, come to live with it. And so I have, now that he’s gone, come to live
with it, to tie my own tie, to accept the discomfort just as he did, whose reasons for sorrow were many, to love again the appliance salesman who turns me to face him as he adjusts the knot at my throat.
What comes back are two seconds of weightlessness. There’s a dirt road, purple foxglove in a ditch, the crunch of gravel under the red tractor’s great black wheels. There’s the grind and smoke of a belabored engine downshifted against the steep down-grade toward a cave of cedars erasing all but quilt scraps of sunlight. There’s me propped on his lap, full of the smell of him—Old Spice, pipe tobacco breast-pocketed in his overalls, pipe and pouch pressed against my back, his fat hands on the steering wheel, my small hands tight on it, alive with vibration this fall morning now startled by the gunfire of backfire, startled again by silence, again by lurch, release, by sudden speed, his quiet “Hold on,” our trailer of firewood careening, whipped side to side, chunks lofted, his foot stomped on the useless brake. There are the two beautiful seconds where I’m lifted free from the weight of my childhood, of the fables I’d made, lifted, flung from the jackknifed tractor about to roll, struck in the back by some hard thing, he leaping after me, my face pushed in the muck of the ditch where I flop entirely awake to the tops of trees, bits of blue, aware that there’s no end to it, there’s an end to it. I’m not able to breathe or cry or feel thorns of blackberry in my cheek, the sting of nettles in this, the new life, the one in which nothing is sure, everything governed by the immutable Law of the Unforeseen. I hear the hoarse rasp of my name, see his bloodied head near mine when he lifts me from the brambles. I’m able then to taste the ditch, spit muck and bits of leaves, able now to understand he threw me to save me, able still to see myself in his arms as he carried me up the hill, aware of being aware of the light perfume of wild roses crushed where I’d landed, petals matted in my muddied hair.
Poetry judge Robert Wrigley says…
What draws me into these poems, what continually calls me back to them, is the sense of dramatic occasion they not only work with but wield exceptionally well. “Tying a Tie” weaves the discomfort of something so common as wearing a tie into the larger discomfort of just being alive, of being, we might say, melancholy, even depressed, and how such discomfort can be in many ways inheritable. And “Airborne” is a beautiful piece of poetic sleight-of-hand. Those two seconds last an elongated but brief three lines, but the rest of the narrative is wrought musically and artfully into the very sort of “fable” of childhood a very skilled adult poet can make of them.