I am making the sounds
my mother made -
the steam iron hissing and thumping,
the ironing board creaking -
as she stood in the first kitchen.

Then, I wordlessly wondered
what dress she would iron
if she could hear me
standing in the silence,
a doorway between us.

Now, I have learned
I can iron the wrinkled words,
slapping sounds into the silence 
separating us,
smoothing the space between us.