steam iron

The smell of the iron surprises me every time—such an old smell, a time-worn smell, and rare at my house. I love, love, love cotton, but I’m not fussy about pressing, at all, ever. I leave for Santa Fe tomorrow and the house is strung with my hand-laundry, Anokhi dresses and Anokhi tank tops drying over the bathroom drying rack and the backs of chairs, the hook for my children’s bathtowels on the back of the bathroom door. Indigo, garnet, black, apple green with outrageous red peonies, burgundy with pink peonies and Prussian blue foliage. Two dresses have an Asian asymmetry, with closures on the side. Two have side zippers and deep V-necks. Each dress is created from hand-crafted block prints, similar to batik. The tanks are pintucked or broomstick crinkled. The treehouse condo is a jungle of slightly damp color. Every garment is featherweight.

And precious, in hot weather, lighter than pajamas. The store went out of business this spring, so the owners can retire, so my small collection is important to me. I will leave two at home, in case of luggage catastrophe. I'll be wearing my favorite.

The iron raises no steam, but dries the damp edges so I can pack the things tonight.

But for now it’s time to drive the kids to daycamp, and stop by the computer store, and purchase sandwich bags so I can pack one with liquids for my carry-on…