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.