I checked to see if it was still plugged in to the wall outlet. I checked to see that it was turned up to the right setting. It just wasn't doing a thing to press my fabric. I hesitantly touched the bottom. Then I placed my whole hand on the bottom. Nothing but the tiniest of warmth.
It's time had come. My iron had pressed it's last seam. It's a sad moment because we do become friends with our tools. We like the way they feel in our hands. We find comfort in their familiarity. We become in tune with them as we see them as an extension of our body.
My iron. I remember where and when I purchased you. We've built a lot of quilts together. We've scorched a bit of fabric, and we've melted some, too. When I fused adhesive and interfacing to your bottom, you patiently waited for me to scrub it off. Was this your spa treatment?
I know you weren't always happy with me. When I was impatient and didn't give you time to warm up, you spit water on my fabric. But, we did work well together and I am sad to see you go.