a love letter to ironing

Yesterday was an out-of-sorts, tired day.  I dragged myself through ranch work, Sunday calls, an afternoon dance, dinner.  As I went about a final kitchen cleanup, I noticed the iron and wrinkled flannel shirt that had been waiting weeks for my attention.  In the dark house, I plugged in the iron and covered the dining room table with a towel.  I licked my fingertip and tapped the metal; it made a sharp hiss.  As I pressed the iron along the length of the button hole panels, the wrinkles disappeared under the heat and weight.   Back and forth, back and forth, I stayed ironing long after the shirt was smooth.  I  stayed right there - for the first time all day - in that small, important, holy moment.