It had lounged in her room for an entire summer. She bought it sometime in May, a visual representation of the inner monologue she once had about the importance of vibrant colors and her refusal to be limited to one particular type. She preferred to be of no type than to be limited, she argued.

So, it had settled, at first comfortably, onto a hanger where it hung with all the promise of a sunny day, but it soon migrated, hanging from the corner of a bed post which spoke of an immediacy: IRON ME.

But she couldn’t. She had no iron. And even if she did, she wouldn’t. She’d forgotten the bright version of her that matched the vestment. It all felt a little too forced for her taste. So, it languished and crumpled and tossed itself melodramatically from the bedpost to the floor to the chair to the irritating space between the bottom of the closet door and the carpet. It reminded her of all that she could not, would not, did not do. She hated it. She could not stand it. She wanted to sob everytime she saw it.

It wasn’t until the car windows began gathering light layers of frost that she remembered: she had owned an iron all along.She had just forgotten for a little while. With gusto, she unwrinkled every last wrinkle accumulated from months of disregard, trills of pleasure flowing to her heart. It was with love and a care she had forgotten she was capable of that she draped the smart dress over her reading chair. It hung there now with a whisper of tomorrow. Tomorrow.