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For the last 20 years, my iron has been gathering dust in the back of the hall closet. The few times I’ve taken it out was to spot press the top sheet on my bed. My mother used to iron every night. When she should’ve been kicking up her feet for a well-deserved rest after a day at the office, cleaning the house and feeding her family, she stood exhausted in the den steaming away the wrinkles on my father’s shirts. This image made a lasting impression. Once, I had a boyfriend who found it therapeutic to iron. That was a relationship made in heaven.
Shrink-wrapped iron by Chris Labrooy [1]