by Erin Jamieson

I hang mama’s dress on the clothesline careful not to crease the cotton, willing the sun to dry stains from bourbon and cigarette ashes.

If papa notices he doesn’t tell me and we keep it this way: a private but public exhibit, a cream colored collar whose lace snags and starts to unravel, an unraveling neither of us can stop.

In three hours the dress will be dry and papa and I will dress Mama tell her she looks beautiful, take photos that we will bury in our house and toss in the fireplace while she sleeps again.

Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published in over fifty literary magazines, and her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She teaches English Composition at the University of Cincinnati-Blue Ash College and also works as a freelance writer.