I tried to call my mother. She didn’t answer the phone. Maybe she knew I had the laptop open and was planning to transcribe everything she said. It’s the kind of thing I’d do. It’s warm. It seems that way. It may just be the heat seeping through my electric lap blanket. It may be that I’m embarrassed. That would be good. I lace my fingers together and feel them passing through one another, hand linked with hand. I feel the soft skin and the resistance of the bones. I rub my toes together. They are always cold it seems.