color

My husband’s childhood was a polar opposite of mine. Sometimes I find myself a tiny bit envious of his colorful past next to my gray one. He lived in Germany, Japan, Colorado, Nebraska, Alabama… (ok, so I’m not jealous of all Steve’s childhood). He moved, he saw the world, he met new people; all while I was making up new games to play on our same trampoline.

His life story is perfectly divided into chapters, while I can’t tell age 9 from age 14 when memories strike. Recently, I’ve even taken to writing down the dates I lived at certain apartments and held certain jobs so I can have a chronological list if ever I may need one (and I assume just about any list or spreadsheet will be a necessity at some time).

When I read an extraordinary story, I feel in comparison, I have nothing to say. Next to all the interesting and thought-provoking books in plastic covers, there lies my own book: just a faded cadet-blue leather binding without any pictures, glitz, fancy fonts. Like a pamphlet next to “War and Peace;” I am just a dull afterthought.

Suburbia

Showcased in a lineup,
our shoebox homes.
SUVs dotting the driveways.
Neutral paint colors.
Tiny flags from our lawn service.

Some slight variety –
nuances, really –
but we’re all living
the same basic concept.

Like when the vacuum
runs over filth
of all different textures and colors
and churns it all
into the same gray fuzz.

– July 1, 2009

But today, amidst the drone of this endless winter snow churning everything to mucky slush, I caught a peak of color. A rainbow after the snow, that all of us in our cloned cars hoped was just for us. A splash of color showing us our colorless lives include a little more than we think.