“Ironing,” Ensign, Apr. 1999, 5
Mother ironed endlessly,
leaving the sacrament cloth for early
Sunday morning so as not to press a crease.
She made the corners meet
and carried it that way to the hushed chapel,
without a soul in the seats.
She laid it over the table
without so much as a wrinkle.
And I felt with the priests kneeling there
on that cold winter morning
the warmth of her iron
reaching through our fingertips.