My father can no longer tie his laces.
“It makes me crazy,” he grumbles. “That mess with those hands.”
I kneel for him. Not for the first time, not for the last time. His shoes wiggle a little while I make the loops.
“So!” I say lightly. “A double knot, then it stays.”
He looks at my head, is silent for a moment, and then strokes my hair with an unsteadable hand.
“I used to do that with you.”
We laugh. And swallow.
It’s nothing. And it’s all.
Readers are the authors of this section. An ikje is a personal experience or anecdote in a maximum of 120 words. Submit via iknrc.nl
