My dad taught me how to pack: lay out everything. Put back half. Roll things that roll. Wrinkle-prone things on top of cotton things. Then pants, waist-to-hem. Nooks and crannies for socks. Belts around the sides like snakes. Plastic over that. Then, add shoes. Wear heavy stuff. We started when I was little. I’d roll up socks. Then he’d put me in the suitcase. Some guys bond with their dads shooting hoops or talking about Chevrolets. We did it over luggage. By the time I was twelve, if my Dad was busy, I’d pack for him. Mom tried but didn’t have the knack. He’d get somewhere for work, open his suitcase and text me —”Perfect.” That one word from him meant a lot. The funeral was terrible —my Dad laid out in that big carton and me thinking, Look at all that wasted space.