"Remember how I used to iron your shirts?" I asked, willing for the moment anyway, to help out with his casual wardrobe. Those were the days, we reminisced, when dropping shirts at the dry cleaner was too pricey consider. And I was pretty sweet back then, he said, to stand at the ironing board with a pile of collared shirts and a can of starch.
I helped him pack for his first trip to France, and my support was evident in the way I folded his sweaters and pressed his pants. The very idea seems so novel these days, so quaint that anyone in our house would have time to take out the iron for more than one item. Now we both employ the metaphorical iron and work on all of our wrinkles just about every day--with love, of course--but the shirts have to wait in line.
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