The Iron in her Closet

Readers of this blog know that, from time to time, I cover significant events in my life, as well as many insignificant ones, in these posts.

One of those events occurred recently. The death of my mother.

I haven’t really wanted to write about it. I have this dull ache that I want to push away and minimize. It’s surprising how many times each day a thought pops into my head like “I have to tell Mom this.” Or “What will Mom think of this?” Each time, the realization sinks in, and I brush it aside.

Though, to be honest, in addition to that dull ache there is also a sense of freedom. Freedom from responsibility. And, more importantly, freedom from worry. It’s been 6 years that I’ve been worrying about the people I care for.

So with that freedom, I’ve once again been carving out a little time for writing, and I’ve been exploring different web sites for writing prompts to see if that can get me going.

In my exploring, I came across this prompt: “iron”. Specifically an iron used to iron clothes on an ironing board.

And I immediately thought of my mother.

So while people might think this a bit odd, here is the short essay I was prompted to write:

The Iron in her Closet

Her closet has been cleaned out, although it has only been a few days.

I’m like her in that way. Efficient and unsentimental. 

But nothing went to waste. Nothing was thrown out.

I’m like her in that way as well. Not necessarily frugal, but wanting to get the most out of something. If we can’t use it, maybe someone else can.

Only her iron remains in her closet sitting on top of her ironing board.

Perhaps I am a little sentimental.

How can an iron invoke an image of who a person is?

I can’t remember the last time she ironed. Maybe just a few months ago. Maybe a little longer than that. All I know is there was a time not so long ago that she could iron. And then she couldn’t.

She always had a stack of ironing waiting near her iron. Just as she had a pile of mending next to her sewing machine. And a pail in the garage ready to collect the weeds she picked from her mulch.

She learned to iron from her mother, as I did from her. But somewhere along the way, I lost my iron. As well as my sewing machine. And my pail. How many other things from her have I lost?

She actually liked ironing. It was mindless and calming. I have to admit, there is something magical about seeing those wrinkles disappear and hearing the hiss of the steam. When I was a kid, she ironed while she watched her soap operas. As she grew older, the noise from the TV was no longer necessary to help her through the task at hand.

The presence of the iron was, of course, because she was a young housewife of the ’60s. 

Easy to discount her, no?

No.

Married at 19, and a mother at 20. Because that’s what good Catholic girls were supposed to do. That was all they were allowed to do.

And then divorced at 25. Not something a good Catholic girl was supposed to do. But one of the bravest things imaginable.

There were plenty more examples of bravery on her part. She took on each life challenge as she did her ironing — simply as a task that needed to be completed. Including the one at the end — dealing with the pain.

She used to tell me I was a better mother than she had been. I would shake my head. She taught each of us that we were capable of tackling any task at hand — an invaluable lesson I hope I’ve passed on to my own daughters.

When we knew the end was approaching, she asked me if I had any grievances with her that I wanted to share.

No Mom, I have no grievances.

But I think I want your iron.