If she ever returned, it would have to be perfect, right? So of course it needs ironing again. Even if it wasn't worn yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Even if she never wears it again. These are the thoughts that loop through your mind as you fill the iron, an act you hope is never automatic. Plugging it in, you leave it to heat and heat as the altar is fetched. Sitting between the wall and tumble dryer, it is an ancient ironing board, which begs for retirement. The old lady creaks a little as you bring it away to the kitchen and unfold the legs, for the ceremony.
The last, most important piece, is the vestment; an off-white button-up carefully hung to prevent any damage. There are slight discolourations around the sleeves. One of the buttons is a little loose. The collar takes some coaxing to stay flat. It once smelled of her, a fragrance neither perfume nor cologne could ever replicate. Indeed, you've tried; before it went away, you spent endless hours in and out of countless chemists, sampling every smell and noting the ingredients to try and create some simulacrum of her. It might still have her scent, had you not spent so many nights with it in bed.
Laying it out carefully upon the board, you take the iron and, with a grace that can only be trained, begin to press out the zero creases present. Every square inch of cotton is covered at least once, as she'll know if it isn't, and she might not come back. The sleeves are gently manipulated so as to not create any more of a mess, and the reverse is covered. You never rush, for this is the best part of the day, after all. The whole time, you repeat her name over and over and over and over in your head. Every ritual needs a prayer, after all. The holy pressing is undertaken in total silence, the only noise coming from your quiet hyperventilation.
Something is amiss. Whilst ironing the second sleeve, you spot it; a loose thread.
How could this be? You've taken care of this garment for so long. There's no way this could have happened under your watchful eye, right? You hadn't noticed it this morning when you checked it first thing, or as you stared at it over breakfast, or when you moved it to the bathroom with you. When could it have happened? It begins to dampen somehow. Each drop of indoor rain darkens the material it lands on, maybe permanently. Slowly, you pick it up and bring it with you to the bedroom. Curling up in a bed too big for one, you sniffle as you try to huff the ancient shirt.
It doesn't smell of anything at all.