I washed the curtains yesterday, and hung them on the line to dry. This morning I ironed them. I hoped to get it done before Mom got up, thinking Mom and a hot iron wouldn't mix well. No such luck, Mom got up when I was about half-way through. She watched me for a little bit, then extended her hand and impatiently said, "Come on!" I realized that she wanted the iron. Keeping the iron down on the surface, I guided her hand to it, then put my hand over hers. We ironed a section of curtain that way. And I had a flashback.
Mom's kitchen, the ironing board set up in the middle of it. Mom's sprinkler bottle with the little blue plastic flower head sitting next to the iron. The fresh, cannot-be-duplicated-no-matter-how-the-dryer-sheet-manufacturers-try smell of laundry just off the line. Me on a stool, Mom standing behind me.
This time, it was her hand over mine, guiding the iron.