I ironed my brother’s uniform before he left

Dear Delyara, My brother leaves for basic training this morning. He is nineteen and has spent the last month acting like departure is a joke, calling himself “government property” and making our mother laugh whenever her eyes begin to fill. Last night, he asked whether I could iron his uniform because I am better at getting the sleeves sharp. I stood in the kitchen after everyone went to sleep, moving the iron over the dark fabric while his childhood seemed to rise out of it: grass stains from Little League, the burn mark on his favorite hoodie, the church shirt he wore to our father’s funeral. He came downstairs at three and found me still ironing the same sleeve. He told me not to worry because he would only be gone a few months. I wanted to ask whether he was afraid, but I knew he would answer for my sake instead of his own. So I fixed his collar and told him he looked handsome. At the airport, he hugged our mother first. When he reached me, he whispered, “Don’t let her watch the news too much.” I promised. His uniform looked perfect as he walked away. I have never hated my own careful work more.