Flat Iron

My mother’s old flat iron

Sits on my kitchen shelf.

It’s worn and black and heavy

But unlike its former self.

Its role in life has changed from

Long hours smoothing clothes

No longer now required

It just rests in calm repose.

A book of recipes to guard,

A useful decoration.

Keeping memories a secret

Work has always been its station.

If it could tell of styles

Of years now in the past

Today we’d find, quite possibly,

Not too great a big contrast.

©May Baker Winkel