The water on my kitchen faucet gets hot. I mean, scalding hot. You’d think after living here for four and a half months, I’d figure out that if the handle is too far to the left, it will give my hand a second-degree burn.
Yet, I keep the handle over too far. I contemplate. I can hear the loving voice of my younger mother saying, “Honey, don’t touch.” I reach into the sink, and put my hands under the water. The pain increases. I think about it, and all I can get out, as I pull my hands away quickly, is a faint whisper of, “Hot, hot.”