The Old Man & The Suit

Today started like every other day; the quiet existential tug-of-war between waking up or muting the alarm for just five more minutes. Then came the shower, a quick tea or whatever meager breakfast I could scrounge, and the drive to work.

Work was its usual self: start with planning, kill dependencies, juggle paraphrased employee questions we've answered a thousand times, and get blindsided by the ad-hoc tasks that somehow swallowed two hours of my day.

Then, finally, 5 PM. I needed to pick up a suit from my dad. Honestly, the only person who shares my fashion sense is the old man himself. Makes sense...After all, we’re alike in many ways.

I drove out in the dreaded 100+ degree weather. The second notch on the A/C wasn’t enough. I had to bump it to the third setting: an unsettling disruption to my clockwork routine. I like things predictable. I need them to be. When they slip, even slightly, the whole day starts to shift beneath me.

After picking up the suit, I headed to the tailor. The shop was small. Humble. To my right was a photo of his son, now gone...“In Memory Of” etched below. The frame was spotless, its glass clean despite the ever-present dust of Iraq. Opposite me sat the tailor; an old man, still, composed. His hands rested gently in front of him, the kind of hands that no longer needed to prove what they could do. You could tell: he had folded more than fabric in his life.

I stepped in carrying the suit like it might fall apart if I held it wrong. He smiled...One of those rare, heavy smiles. It wasn’t just kindness. Maybe he saw my lack of familiarity with tailored garments. Or maybe he saw something more.

He asked me to put it on. And just like that, he shifted from presence to instinct. He worked in silence, not robotic, but fluent. It wasn’t him measuring so much as time itself working through his hands. There was grief in the room, but also precision, dignity, and memory folded into the motions like thread in the lining.

After adjusting the jacket, I asked if he could alter the trousers too. He looked at me and smiled softly.

“You must really adore this suit?”

I smiled back. “Yes. It’s my dad’s.”

He nodded slowly. No words, but something passed between us.

In that quiet, something became clear. Two men in a small shop: one defined by what time has taken, the other quietly aware of what time will take. The room held more than just fabric. It held lineage, loss, and a certain love that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

He agreed to the suit. Said it was complicated...Something he rarely does anymore. But I could tell: he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it for a father he never met, and a son he would never see again. For a feeling, a memory, a silence that only moments like this could fill.

Later, I told my dad it would take a while. He nodded and smiled. That was enough.

And now I keep thinking...

Are we what we do with time,

or are we what time does to us?