In the near morning she called to me, her bed covered with the signs of sickness. I bundled sheets, mattress pad, pajamas into the washing machine. I washed my hands, thoroughly, compulsively, hoping to avoid the virus keeping one fifth of the student body home from school.
An old feather pillow needed washing, too, a pillow so old I cannot remember when I purchased it. I put it in the washer before I left the house this morning; it needed hot water and soap to survive the insult of illness.
In the afternoon I returned to move it to the dryer and discovered a pillow apocalypse, feathers everywhere. Feathers coated the sides of the laundry sink, where the rinse water drains,and plugged the drain and encircled the wash tub.
The pillow begged my pardon and asked politely to retire. I granted my permission and cleaned up the feathers.