Laundry Day

by Emily J Vieweg

I am folding another blue work shirt, another pair of brown work pants, and another pair of black work socks.  A pale orange tank comes next - doll-sized.  Her face was robin's egg blue when we said hello.  Clammy, cold lips were pursed in a perpetual state of kiss.  The pink parasol dress was a gift from my sister, it was right to bury her in it.  I had pushed for twelve hours, and even though we knew the outcome, my son insisted on being there, to say hello and goodbye in the same breath.  She was a perfect three-pound doll for my son to gently stroke with his four-year-old fingertips.  "Like Silkey, mommy."  'Silkey' was his sleepy time teddy bear - eyes closed and soft to the touch to fight away the bad dreams.  Softer than the well-worn Bon Jovi tee shirt next on the pile.