I ironed the shirt I will wear to identify my brother

Dear Delyara, The police called at 9:17 tonight. They believe they have found my brother, who has been missing for seven months, and they need a family member to identify the body tomorrow morning. I have not slept. Instead, I ironed a white shirt. I do not know why clothing matters when I am going somewhere no brother should ever have to go. I chose white because he hated when I wore black to family gatherings. Halfway through ironing the sleeve, I realized that if the body is his, I will be wearing white when I learn that hope is officially over. If it is not him, another family will receive this call. I ironed the shirt again. My wife stood in the doorway and watched without telling me to stop. For seven months, we have invented possibilities: hospital, prison, another city, another country, anger, shame, addiction, confusion, anything that still included breath. Tomorrow, all those possibilities may narrow into one refrigerated room and one question somebody expects me to answer by looking at a face that may no longer resemble the person I remember. The shirt is hanging from the wardrobe door now, perfectly pressed. I wish grief were like fabric. Heat, pressure, patience, and eventually every crease agreeing to disappear.