March #SOL16 Day Four
The starched shirts wrapped around the mannequin tell their story without words.
They stand so stiff, waiting for their people to retrieve them.
Who owns these shirts? I ponder as I wait to retrieve my pile of laundry.
They are a heavenly white. I strain to see the embroidery.
Are they from a police officer? Is that a church name, perhaps?
The workers move around these shirts quietly with a politeness that causes me to look closer
It’s as if the shirts calls out, “Respect us. We are here…if only for a short time.”
They leave this place, get worn, ruffled, stained, bruised, dulled
They live life for awhile. Making the world a sunny and cheerful place for a time.
Then it’s back in the giant bag labeled “CD” and the whole scenario plays out once again.