The small mercy of a pressed pillowcase

I enjoy ironing. Before you summon men in white coats carrying large butterfly nets, let me explain.

My mother taught all of us to iron. My father was a military man who expected his children never to leave the house wrinkled or rumpled. He certainly never did.

Caregivers live among things we cannot control, repair, or explain. Ironing allows me to direct some of that tension toward something useful and within reach.

For years, ironing was simply practical. Dry-cleaning bills add up, and we now live more than 50 miles from the nearest cleaner.

Over time, however, the chore became something more.

For four decades, I have watched my wife endure extreme chronic pain, scores of operations, and more months in hospital rooms than I care to count. During those