I sat outside the kiosk while the boy read beside me, and he asked why I always pull my shirt straight before sitting. I had already done it twice without knowing. The chair was low, so the cloth gathered across my stomach again whenever I leaned towards his book. We moved to the bench where my feet could rest properly. There was a little breeze under the roof, and for some time my shoulder was quiet. I could feel the boy's arm against mine when he pointed to a word. Later he ran off to play and I remained there until my wife called. Standing up required more care than sitting down had.

The grandson asked how I learnt to press a collar without making another crease, so I started telling him the order of the work. He said he meant how I learnt, not how he should do it. I had to stop and think. I remember many shirts I got wrong before Madam allowed me to finish one alone, but I do not remember the day my hands became sure. The boy wanted a story with one good day in it. Perhaps there was no single day. I told him about the policeman's shirt from my early years, and then worried that I had made it sound easier than it was. He asked whether the policeman knew me. I do not think he did.

My wife asked me to choose the cloth she should wear on Sunday, and when I said either one would be good she brought them both closer and waited. I chose the blue because I remember it on her at our daughter's visit. She said that was the one she preferred also. It was a small thing, but I was pleased she had asked again instead of deciding without me. I wanted to tell her she looked well in it. The words became a remark about the way the cloth hangs. She smiled nevertheless and folded the other one away. I have been remembering that smile while writing this, by His grace.