You Know, I’m Not That Much Different Than a Three Year-Old

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.”