Wrinkles

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ironed anything. Beyond recollection certainly, but this shirt had to be perfect.

She spritzed some water and guided the iron like a planchette on a ouija board.

The steam fogged her glasses as she smoothed the collar. Finished.

She balled the shirt up. Laid it back down.

The mortician was waiting. No one would see her son in his closed casket, but she had to start again.

Her tears sizzled under the hot iron, the salt embedded in the fibers of the last thing her boy would ever wear.