# Blue Blouse The blue blouse hangs on the line like a question mark bent by wind. I remember your shoulder the way it curved beneath that cloth— how the buttons caught the sun and threw it back, stubborn and bright. You wore it on Tuesdays, or was it always Tuesday in my mind? The way you moved through rooms, the blouse leading like a lamp. Now it's someone else's laundry day. The pins hold it differently. The wind doesn't know your shape anymore, so it invents new ones, careless and wild. I could take it down. Fold it the way you never did— all corners and edges, the way neat people fold things. But I leave it. Let it stay caught between the wet weight of what was and the bright emptiness of air. It will fade. Blues always do. Until one day I won't recognize it at all, and that will be a mercy, won't it? A mercy.