Dear, dear John

I’ve just done something very strange and silly.  I was finally tackling the huge pile of ironing which has accumulated over the past few months, and there were some things of yours in it.

John, I have spent decades ironing your shirts.  I never objected to doing it, I’d like to think (especially now) that I always did it with love.

I just ironed two or three of your shirts, even though I know you will never need or wear them again.

It was such a familiar task, John.  I should have been crying as I did it, but in fact it just gave me huge comfort.  Even though I knew it was the last time.

I’m glad I had a lovely man for whom to iron shirts for so many years.

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