January is nearly over, just ninety minutes before we flip the calendars over. Another month consigned to history. I plan to visit Mother tomorrow. I have had reports that she is not well, and the doctor suspects she may have had a minor stroke. Aunt saw her today. She tells me that Mother is very quiet, very tired, and there is even less of her than before. I am hoping she will know me, hoping she will respond to my touch and to my voice, hoping we will enjoy some poetry together. Beyond that, I don’t know what to hope. Mother has been at the beginning of the end for so long now, that I have no idea what to expect.