The elevator doors open and we step onto the floor. Immediately, another nurse greets us from behind a desk. 

“Hello, who are you here to visit?” My mom gives the nurse the necessary information and identification, and soon we are escorted down the hall. 

“Room 641 right here, just hit the page button if you need anything,” the nurse smiles at us. We thank her and step into the room.

 A snow-white linen bed lays in the center of the room, cradling the fragile figure of my grandmother. Next to her, in a padded chair, my grandfather sits silently, holding her hand. We quietly greet him as he gets up to hug us. He is dressed in a grey dress shirt, striped blue tie, and black dress pants. Despite being retired for more than 15 years, he never dresses informally, unless he is out on the boat, fishing. 

“She’s sleeping right now, but she has been in and out of sleep all afternoon. She’ll likely wake up before long,” my grandfather tells my mom, his arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace. He comes up to me and bends slightly, “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown since the last time I saw you! You’re going to be a grown man any day now.”

“You say that every time, grandpa,” I reply.

“Because you keep growing,” he smiles back at me. We embrace each other, and he tousles my hair slightly as we pull apart. We sit down in other chairs next to the bed, and my mother and grandfather quietly chat about my grandmother’s condition. The coughing fits have stopped, but she’s on oxygen all the time now, I overhear. Glancing back at my grandmother, I see her purple blouse rise and fall gently. Across her, tubes snake up her face and into her nose. 

“They think that by Saturday she will be good to go home,” my grandfather tells us, glad that they can go to church like every other week. For about an hour we make small talk about school and activities. My sister’s tales of the day fill the air, oblivious to the tension. At one point my grandfather gets up to use the bathroom. After stepping out, he adjusts his tie slightly. Then he pauses and looks right at me. 

“Hey bud, you’re getting bigger now-” He starts before I interrupt him,

“You already said that, grandpa.”

“As you get closer to being a man, you need to learn how to dress like one. Did your father ever teach you how to tie a tie?” I pause and think,

“No, I don't think so. Why?” I responded. He steps closer to me, 

“Come to the bathroom, I’m going to teach you,” he says, his voice strangely happy. I glance over at my mom. She is being regaled by my sister, but she glances back at me and smiles. She nods so I follow him over to the small, tiled bathroom. He steps behind me in the mirror. He grabs the knot at his throat and undoes the striped turquoise tie. His burly frame envelops me and his farmers' hands, hard and calloused, gently rest on my shoulders. 

“So you start by putting the tie around your neck, flat, with the thick side hanging longer than the thin side,” he begins, positioning the fabric around my polo collar. In the mirror, I see him delicately go through the motions around my neck. I watch his practiced hands expertly maneuver the tie. In a few minutes, a perfect Windsor knot sits at my collar. I stare up at him through the sterile glass of the hospital mirror. The bathroom is cooler than the rest of the room. While I stare at him, he grabs the knot, pulls at it, and in seconds, it is a flat piece of fabric once more. 

“Now you try,” he says to me. 

“But I only saw you do it once. How am I going to do it?” I ask. 

“The only way to get better is to practice. Just try,” He responds. And so I do.

 The first attempt is a sorry excuse for a tie, barely shoelace quality. I finish with half the tie hanging on my leg and the other half tangled at my throat. I turn and look back at him, frustrated. He just smiles at me, and motions for me to try again. I undo the mess of a knot and try again. The second time is arguably worse than the last. When I untangle it again, I stare up at him, frustrated. He reassures me,

“Here, let’s try together” He places his large, rough hands atop my much smaller and smoother hands. He guides me through the motions again, his hands guiding me through the motions. I lead and he follows, correcting me when I go over instead of under. This time, it is still lopsided and tangled, but in the mirror, I see a semblance of a man’s tie around my neck. I look older, even if the tie is too short on one side and too long on the other. I smile up at him. He smiles back at me. When we try again, I am not frustrated, I am encouraged. My grandfather still guides my hands, but soon I learn the rudimentary motions on my own. After a few more attempts, the knot sits at my throat, just like it did on his. I beam up at him, and the corners of his mouth turn up. Proud of myself, I run out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. 

“Mom, mom, look,” I shout, “I tied this all on my own!” The pride makes me forget where we are for a moment. I suddenly remember my sleeping grandmother and cut myself off. My mom turns, and while I expect her to shush or scold me for yelling, she simply grins and says,

“That’s so awesome, I’m proud of my little man.” 

When she turns I get a clear view of the bed. It has been adjusted to be angular instead of flat. On the eggshell sheets, my grandmother is propped up and smiling. She is awake and looks much healthier than her slumbering form did. She coughs slightly and says,

“That’s so great honey! You look so grown up!” Her voice sounds delicate, but not fragile. More like a birdsong than an illness talking. Eager to impress them, I say,

“Look, I’ll do it again!” I untangle the tie, position it, and meticulously and deliberately go through the practiced motions. The end result is far from perfect, but it is a tie nonetheless. My grandmother and mother both smile and shower me with compliments. My grandfather emerges from the bathroom praising me for how quickly I learned it. We all grab seats around my grandmother and talk. The words are less important than the fact that they are face-to-face. My grandmother noticeably appears more lively the more we share our lives and love with each other. She tries talking, but often it devolves into fits of coughs, so she lets us share trivial anecdotes, which are as precious as gold to her. The hours fly by. Eventually, a nurse comes in to tell us that visiting hours are almost over. We share heartfelt goodbyes and promise to visit again if she remains in the hospital past Sunday. 

As we walk out of the entrance, the orange sky has descended into a deep navy, and pinpricks of light blink across the nocturnal mosaic. Streetlamps guide the path back to our car. We get in and buckle up. Before we can merge onto the highway, I nod off. I never notice that I forgot to take the tie off, a remnant of my steps towards adulthood sits quietly against my slow-moving chest, a piece of love and legacy drives home with us.

My fingers loop the tie, practice making it second nature. I finish the knot and pull it tight up against my black collar. I look at my reflection. The tie is perfect, from years of practice. The black shirt is split by a purple tie. A child looks into the mirror and a young man stares back. A hard jawline and broad shoulders that weren’t there all those nights ago in the hospital bathroom. The eyes that stare directly back at mine are the same greenish-blue. Yet something about them is harder and colder. Years of understanding the harsh realities of this world. I force a smile, knowing I will be doling out fake smiles and gratitude to the lines that come to shake my hand and say their goodbyes to my grandmother. The years have changed me and made me bigger, stronger, and more of the man that I am constantly reminded I am becoming. The years were less kind to my grandmother. She left the hospital that day, but it wouldn't be her last hospital visit. The ailment quietly inflamed and scarred her lungs. She fought fiercely and held on for years, but eventually, the silent malady won, and I am here, looking at the tie I hoped I would never tie. Straightening the collar I prayed I wouldn’t have to straighten. Checking my reflection one last time, I adjust the tie for no other reason than because it calms me. I don’t need to, it is perfect. Nothing like me, but I can reflect the facade of a “man” who has control. Dominance over appearance connotes control over one’s emotions. I can control one, so I do. Silently mourning like a child, but dressed like a man, I step into the church foyer.