Empty Space to Fill

I'm alone in the house now with the new kitten, who follows me from room to room mewing and tumbling about underfoot.  I know perfectly well that Bob won't have time to write from flight training in California, but I still want to rush to the mailbox every day.
I turn up the radio to hide the quiet: "Fibber McGee and Molly," "Texaco Star Theater with Fred Allen," even opera.  Anything but the ticking clock and rain pattering on the roof.
Everywhere there are exhortations to give all on the homefront for the war effort.  No one wants to do her bit more than I; every moment the war is shortened brings Bob's return a moment closer.
But I hardly know how to contribute.  I'm not a nurse or a teacher or anything else useful.  Somehow, "folding laundry for victory" doesn't have a very inspiring ring to it.  I know Bob's greatest desire is to come home to find everything exactly as he left it, but I have to find a way to to more or I will go stir crazy.