Creating Order, the Old Fashioned Way

A friend's mother died last week. I didn't know my friend's mother well, but I understood how much her absence was felt.

It takes a loss, sometimes, even if it's not your own, to step back and reflect on what you have. I still have my mother. Infuriating and awe-inspiring, ridiculous and wise, tough as nails and soft as Jello. I have zigzagged through life, made plenty of wrong turns but, so far, have come out fairly unscathed. My mother has always been there, ready to offer up advice or an occasional "I told you so."  If I get it right, she takes credit. Why shouldn't she? I do the same with my own children.

My friend reminded me, after the service, to be happy I still have a mommy. But your mom sounded so perfect I wanted to tell her. Come to think of it, I don't know any perfect people who are alive; they all seem to be dead.

I remember having this urge, almost daily, long after my father died, to call him and ask him a question. Advice, maybe. Or maybe something about a plumbing issue. Maybe just to hear his voice. I saved his last voicemail as long as technology would allow. I didn't need to -- I have never forgotten how he sounded, or how it felt to listen to him. Annoyed or reassured, impatient or riveted. It doesn't matter. I'd give anything to have another chat with him, but I will always hear him. 

So far, I've had twenty more years with my mother than I had with my dad, and I know her so well I never need to ask her advice or, perish the thought, her opinion.  She tries her best not to offer it up, knowing I will do as I wish regardless.

I was out of sorts, after that memorial service for my friend's mom. Even more so because I attended an event later that day to honor my other friend's son, gone almost two and a half years. He would be twenty-nine now. Eulogize him all we want, nurture his legacy until we're blue in the face, we would all prefer to have him back here, a little imperfect but zigging and zagging forward.  He never had the chance to infuriate and inspire, to err and to correct, to have his own children roll eyes at him (as he did, many times) while they secretly tucked away his wisdom.

That night, lost in memories that belonged mostly to others,  I took out my ironing board, fired up the rusty old iron. Every evening -- or at least every other evening -- when I was growing up, my mother would iron. I would sit with my father at one end of the living room, and mom would set up the ironing board at the opposite end, cross-wise, in front of the piano. She was there but sort of not there. Each time she set the iron down for another pass, the legs of the board would creak. Then the hiss of steam, and down again, creak. My father and I would do the crossword puzzle together, or maybe just sit. He would smoke his cigar. Few words were spoken, but I was content. And safe.  

My mother once suggested I try to iron occasionally. She actually made me guess what she was suggesting, a four letter word she said. I could not imagine where she was going with that. She finally had to tell me. Iron. That wasn't  in my four-letter-word wheelhouse.  Not even close.

It was surprisingly satisfying, ironing the other day. Instantly gratifying, wrinkles disappearing in seconds. A quick fix to create order out of chaos. Tough to do these days, when it's okay to wrest brown children from their parents' arms but it's not okay to refuse to serve a useless but dangerous idiot in a restaurant. Oops, didn't mean to go there, sorry.

So I will iron more. Because I know my mother would tell me how soothing it is, and it's taken me a long time, but I know she's right.