Folding Laundry

My husband only wears gray shirts and gray underwear lately.

It says nothing about our romantic life
I think it must just be a habit
A comfort, is all.

But
Gray describes the way he’s silent
about any emotion he’s feeling

Leaving me to guess.

And while I sit in the gray to try and understand
I try not to disturb it much.

Like a coat worn only on my shoulders,
Like a scarf tied loosely once.

Because… me?
I like to live in the blue.

Tears and chlorinated water and Neptune and sadness and clear skies
Every unsteady and steady feeling at once.

No suitable place to live at all,
The inside of an earthquake.

But at the epicenter of our bedroom,

I am frozen. He is still.

Because neither of us know what to do
With a pair of bunny-footed pajamas
(A green that seems strangely faded while new and unused)
For a color that never came to be.

And none of us will ever know how to view that friendly red
That the doctor said
was normal to come.

But tell me what is normal about
Showing up,
early to a celebration,
with a basket of broken glass?

So
I’ll fold his underwear
And place it in the top drawer
(For his comfort.)

And I’ll take the bunny feet
And our hopes and excitement
And fold them carefully
To shove in the back of the closet,
(For my own.)

And maybe we just live in the blue-gray-green-red together
Spinning in the machine and stacked on top of one another,

Until another color finally comes along