I have thought a great deal, since, about that unloosened tie, because it was the first thing that told me the truth, long before my mind was willing to hear it.

Grief undoes a person’s surface.

It loosens the tie, and untucks the shirt, and empties the face; a father who has just lost his child does not remain pressed, because grief does not permit it, because the body in real anguish cannot hold its careful shape.

And Luke’s shape was perfectly held.

His grief, if there had been any, had not reached his collar.

I understand now that the reason he was still composed was not that he was strong, or in shock, or holding himself together for my sake, as I first tried to believe.