I Sat on the Floor to Fold Laundry

Dear Delyara, Not because there weren’t chairs. Because I was too tired to stand and too wired to rest properly. So I sat on the bedroom floor with the washing basket in front of me and folded clothes at the level of the carpet like a woman quietly trying to make peace with the fact that this, too, counts as a life. Trousers. School shirts. Socks. One tiny vest. One of my old tops. His jumper. The whole family passing through my hands in clean cotton form. It felt ordinary. It also felt intimate in that exhausting domestic way that makes me want to cry for reasons no one would understand if I said, “I was just folding laundry.”