Laundromat Madonna

She precisely folded the baby clothes and being a long time laundromat habitual, I recognized the signs. Obsession at the laundromat level is usually the last attempt at order in a life without. The two blackened puffy eyes and the swollen lip were not too subtle clues and the bent nose and scar upon the cheek told more of what she was going home to. She worked with such care, such intense deliberation, there, in the holy golden glow of the afternoon sunlight, an American Madonna, and I wondered, after she left, what I should have done, and what I could possibly do.