just now as I was 

staring into the end of the first 

fireplace fire of the winter,

and the room was dark and cold 

everywhere but the hearth

where I sat, and the only sound

I could hear was that of the fish

tanks babbling on as the guppies 

hovered sleeping near the rocks,

I was brought to another time

in less than an instant, as tends 

to happen to me during some

peaceful solitary activities, and 

the delicate perfectly cylindrical 

dying flame undulating at the underside

of the thinner of two logs reminded 

me of when handwashing

time always would become a game.

with soap being wasted and 

mirrors being splashed and

shirts becoming soaked and

heads hung at the sight of Mom.

one of my favorite things to do

in the kitchen sink was to turn 

the faucet to the exact spot

where the steam was as

solid and clear as an icicle,

before the tiny screen at its mouth

could break it into noisy whitewater.

I'd place one finger in 

the stream and feel its

weight and split it into

two. for long stretches of time 

this kept me occupied.

and I smile thinking of how

silly yet charmingly innocent it is 

that a child can be so amused by

something so small. that a 

stream of water and her finger's 

effect on it make bring her joy.

and then I smile again realizing

that ironically, in all these years of 

alleged cynicism and maturation, 

so little has actually changed.