I heard Aaron shuffle into the kitchen; the water was boiling.  

"You okay in there?"  I was in the bath staring at the ceiling. 

"Stuck in a scrap book, " I return. 

"Hold on - I'll be right there."  I hear him fill up another put of water, then the click, click, click of the gas burner.  We like our baths hot.

I get stuck from time to time in this pile of photographs in my mind.  A picture of our boat, The Polar Bear, is brought to the surface.  I remember the deck was white and chalky under my jelly sandals.  Quickly the pictures shuffle and I see the low spot in the backyard; the part of the yard you couldn't ride the mower through or you'd get stuck.  

I'm new at this blog thing, so my entries will be all over the place.  Mostly I think of this place as a slightly more public journal.  My intent for this blog is to get me closer to submitting a small piece of writing out there in the world.  

I can't promise exciting entries.  I take a lot of baths, go on walks & runs, drink wine, look at birds, draw birds, etc.  It's a Friday night, it snowed all day, I just took a bath, and here I am writing.   

As I lie here on my bed, after soaking too long in a hot bath, under the hum of an electric ceiling fan, I think of my mother.  The window on the side of the bed is cracked open and the late winter air reveals the steam rising from my red skin.  I remember seeing my mother through a cracked door; lying on my parents’ bed naked, eyes closed, her skin red and steaming.  Her wet foot prints on the wood floor, pools of the setting sun’s light.  The silence she made deepen with her breathing.  The trees outside putting on their black silhouettes like gloves.  The end of another day.  The fleeting transition from day to night that we wish would last longer.  I remember the first time I saw her - it scared me.  Now thinking of her, knowing what I do know about time, love, memories; I understand.