I'm zooming with my mother.

She regales me with her Wordle experience, "I got it in three!"

"That's wonderful, Mom." I love to encourage her literary pursuits. "I bet Paul would have taken four or five."

"Oh. That little brother of yours is clever, Mark. Surely he would get it in four."

My mom loves to recall his past triumphs. Of how he used to get everything in four. She hasn't heard of how the baby of the family has turned to the dark side. She has not heard of the oddly appropriate but infinitely hurtful comic that he found and posted in our WhatsApp chat:

"Mom. I'm concerned about Paul's voice, recently," I say, changing the subject, but, of course, keeping it on Paul, "It used to be so round--"

"Modulated." my Mom corrects me, preferring obscure words that don't quite explain anything over useful shape metaphors that anyone can understand.

"..modulate then. But it is getting sharper."

"It's because he is worried about Wordle."

"That they will run out of words?"

"Marky! There are over 12,000 words with 5 letters, but the Wordle wordlist only has 2309 words on it. They are going to have to start repeating."

I quit doing Wordle two years ago, after I got it in one. There was no point in continuing.

"Maybe they'll just go to six letter words." I suggest. "Why don't you ask them?"

"I wouldn't know how to contact them."

"On their website. Just type it into those boxes."

"Oh." she thinks about it, about how hard it would be to get the whole question down to five letters. Like a Haiku. "I guess that would work, but..."

"Well. I guess you have a project for today then."

And having found my mother a project, my job is done. I hang up, and get back to work.