Iron and Cloth

The mudroom was quiet. Cold floor beneath my boots. I stopped at the wooden bench by the door. Dirt from the garden terrace clung to the steel edge. I reached out. Picked up a coarse cotton rag draped over the timber rail. Firm pressure. One slow pass down the flat of the metal, then the reverse. The grit scraped away into dark streaks on the fabric. The edge dulled back to clean steel under the dim fixture. I laid the rag flat, rested the blade beside it, and stood still in the dark.