My dad taught me to pack: lay out everything. Put back half. Roll thingsthat roll. Wrinkle-prone things on top of cotton things. Then pants, waist-to-hem. Nooks and crannies for socks. Belts around the sides like snakes.Plastic over that. Add shoes. Wear heavy stuff on the plane.
We started when I was little. I’d roll up socks. Then he’d pretend to put mein the suitcase, and we’d laugh. Some guys bond with their dads shootinghoops or talking about Chevrolets. We did it over luggage.
By the time I was twelve, if he was busy, I’d pack for him. Mom tried but didn’t have the knack. He’d get somewhere, open his suitcase and textme—“Perfect.” That one word from him meant a lot.
The funeral was terrible—him laid out in that big carton and me cryingand thinking,Look at all that wasted space.
