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The Ironing Board

 

in the corner she kept it folded  

quiet metal legs waiting to stretch  

beside torn rags and cleaning sprays  

where years of work rested unseen  

 

she drew it out with care each time  

the weight of love balanced in her arms  

her hands steady as unyielding roots  

the board a stage for wrinkled lives  

 

the iron hissed like a whispered prayer  

steam rising to smooth the chaos  

my small clothes transformed beneath her hands  

lines and creases erased by her tenderness  

 

every school morning began here with her  

an act of love pressed into fabric  

the smell of heat and crisp perfection lingered  

mama zil’s touch stitched into my memory