I have a friend who loves a heavily starched shirt.

From my days in the Marines through my years in the business world, I used to say that two of life’s great pleasures were a hot shower and a heavily starched shirt.

There was something about putting one on. The crisp collar. The pressed sleeves that crinkle when your arm extends to the cuff. The feeling of being clean, put together and ready to meet the day.

My friend wears his with, as the French say, a certain je ne sais quoi.

He is a bit older than I am, a retired businessman, a neighborhood guy. We are kindred spirits of sorts, and I have always enjoyed our conversations about life.

Recently, I’d heard he had suffered a loss in his family.

And then I saw him today.

He wasn’t wearing his normal starched shirt.

He wore a wrinkled T-shirt.

His hair was uncombed.

We spoke.

He does not hide from his grief, but his voice was softer now and there were fewer words exchanged.

His pain was palpable.

We embraced rather than shake hands.

I could feel his body against mine but, somehow I could not feel his presence. His body was there, but his mind and spirit seemed to be somewhere else.

I wanted to help him carry the weight he was feeling.

But I know this man.

He has carried difficult things in life before.

He carries his own burdens.

And maybe that’s the hard part of being his friend.

Knowing there are some burdens I cannot help him carry.

I cannot carry this for him.

But I can stand beside him while he does.

Today, for the first time, I understood that wearing a starched shirt was never really about the shirt.

Sometimes the wrinkles tell you more.