Threading the beads

I iron a small, collared shirt

that fits baggily over the slim frame

of my six-year-old boy:

it is a little too long,

and a little too wide

at the shoulders.

I iron my school uniform

proud that I have graduated from a frock

to a skirt and shirt.

It is a little too big for me as it was sized

for my sister who was taller at my age.

The faded, grey skirt reaches all the way down to my mid-calf—

just below the knee is what's in—

and the collared, button down shirt is too wide at the shoulders.

But the fabric is soft from years of wear and wash,

so I don't mind that it drowns my smaller-than-average frame.

I spread it carefully over a blanket on the floor

and tug at the large pleats as I attempt to get

the lines on the folds straight and crisp.

Sprinkle some water. Maybe that will help?

I watch my father ironing his work clothes:

grey trousers, and a white collared button-down shirt.

Our dog is nearby. We both observe him with interest

as he makes careful, slow passes along

one leg, sprinkling water occasionally

to appease stubborn wrinkles.

His movements are calculated,

deliberate, and precise,

making neat, straight creases

exactly where they should be

and wiping them out where they shouldn't—

a skill that the professional who visits

our home weekly,

to take bundles of laundry

to iron and fold on his cart with his

charcoal-powered iron,

lacks.

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