My Father's Shirts

 

 

 

My father was a math and science teacher. That meant five clean, ironed, and starched shirts per week, plus one for Sunday. Some of my sisters and I took turns with the dusting and the dish-washing. But ironing my father's shirts fell to me. No steam irons either, in those days. When the no-iron shirt material came out, it was a godsend!

 

My Father’s Shirts

 

 

I’ve dusted, vacuumed, mopped the kitchen floor,

hung out the wash, swatted every fly—

it’s Saturday, and yet there’s one more chore.

 

The eldest child of seven, it is I

who’s been entrusted with his shirts. Last night

I sprinkle-dampened them, then rolled them tight.

Today, from collar, yoke, and cuffs, to sleeves,

to pocket, placket, front and back, the dry,

hot iron makes the cotton steam. Nearby,

my mother checks for creases. As she leaves,

a side-glance at the gussets and the pleat.

 

I bristle, being too young to know that she

just hopes and prays I’ll learn to take the heat.

And maybe live a good life, wrinkle-free.