The summer of laundry

I shall call this the Summer of Laundry, a many-week sweep during which my son, over the course of his every day, would trade his gym shirt for his work shirt for his hanging out shirt for his going out shirt, and in between all that, the rest of the house was very hot and very sweaty. Every other day, there were piles, and with a one-handed husband (the cast comes off in a week; the therapy shall begin; the healing, this time, will take time) and a son rarely home, the piles of things were left entirely to me.

Here are the things one can do while also doing laundry:  Test a dialogue sequence in one's head.  Try to recall the outlines of last night's dream.  Blithely ignore the bad news on the other room's TV screen.  Watch the spider nimble across the ceiling.  Make up words and speak them out loud, since there's no one near to listen.

Here's what not to do:  Count the days until one's son will be gone.  That's heartbreaking business, and one can't possibly bear it, laundry and all.