Christina’s World

I am folding laundry on our bed. I am surrounded my four stacks of clean clothes. The air smells of Cool Scent Tide and Tropical Breezes Fabric Refresher Beads. There are still toys on the living room floor but the kitchen sink is empty and clean. I fold. Joseph hasn’t brought up the therapist idea again but then we only talk about the kids and the weather. As long as things look okay they are okay. I fold. The piles grow bigger.
Over the armoire hangs a print of Wyeth’s Christina World that Joseph and I got before we were married. I stare into the mildew yellow of the wheat field, I see the tortured twist of her pink dress, I see the farmhouse roof knife the faded blue sky. Christina turns towards me.

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