I learned to iron on pillowcases. My mother insisted that pillowcases must be ironed to “make the bed look fresh,” as she would say when I complained about the chore. When we visited her as adults, the beds in the guest room always had ironed pillowcases with crisp lines where they had been folded after ironing. I have continued the tradition. Moving the iron back and forth, I think of my husband’s smile when he sees the newly made bed, my family who will sleep on these when they visit, and, of course, my mother, who died six years ago at age 94. It is an unnecessary chore in the age of permanent press fabric, but it allows my mind to wander while my hands accomplish something. I was about to throw out some old pillowcases, then decided to use them to make a book honoring her ritual. Using phrases from some of my writing about her, I set type and ran the pillowcases through a letterpress. The cover is a quilted sham, and the book is stab-bound.