A mother ironing at bedtime

The air is tinged with warm and soothing yellow light, glowing from beneath the lampshades. Under my feet is the soft shag carpet in burnt sienna, tickling gently at my ankles. The gentle din of the 1970’s air conditioner drones in the background while the television splashes out bright voices and colors from the corner. 

The air around me is tender and familiar, charged with comfort and soundness and reliability as I approach the kitchen. 

A towel is folded haphazardly, longways across the kitchen table, and the steam of the iron puffs out proudly, as a hushed symphony of crickets hums through the open window panes. 

My mother stands and presses the back of her strong hand against her steady forehead, a ponytail and bobby-pins sweeping back damp curls. She embodies determination and love, fatigue and sweat, as she prepares the family’s clothes for the next day. Her well practiced hand guides the iron across the flowing, flattening fabric, chasing the wrinkles away under the rolling tide of smoothing steam. 

She is capable and strong, my mother, affectionate and sharp. She distracts herself from her weary bones by focusing on the task at hand. 

Not wanting to disturb her concentration, I approach with quiet footsteps and say “good night, Mommy.” She wraps me in her arms that convey love in their powerful squeeze, and in that moment everything about her exudes safety and reassurance. 

As my head curls against my cool pillow and I pull the thin sheet into my hands and up under my chin, I fall asleep knowing my mother is here, and all is well.