Still Damp

My sister’s voice on the line, thin

and stretched, like old elastic. Her friend,

again. I piled up all the good advice,

shiny solutions, like fresh-washed clothes

straight from the spin cycle.

“You’re not helping,” she said,

flat, dead. “You’re making it worse.”

It clicked then, sharp, a hot metal

click. Grandma in the laundry room,

her old iron hissing steam

into the air.

She’d press the cotton shirts

until they were crisp, bone-dry.

But never, never the ones still heavy

with water. “Too much fight in it,"

she’d say, "You can’t iron out wet."

Just scorch it, or stretch it

out of shape forever.

I guess some things just need

to air out, to drip dry slow,

before you try to smooth them down.

Before you lay the heat on them.

My hands were already reaching

for the dial, the steam button, stupid.