The Ocean Wonders Aquarium has resurfaced. Johnny carries it around with him like a boom box, playing the music. Or I have to carry it, since it takes thirteen batteries and weighs a ton. It’s supposed to hang on the side of a crib.

There are three or four different songs. They are all formless and basically unsingable, but haunting. In the car the aquarium rides between the boys, set on continuous play, with the volume up. Johnny likes its mournful tone. On the way to ice cream tonight, he said to me, “This song is sad.” I said, “But you’re not sad,” and he said, “But the song is sad.”

And strangely enough, today I was sad. A friend of ours is ill, in the hospital, awaiting surgery, and last night I dreamed that I was with my Nana again. I was in her house, which after her death was sold to a developer who pretended he wasn’t a developer who was going to tear it down, who then tore it down and replaced it with two houses. No one in my family will drive by them, although they are more than willing for you to drive by them. They want you to drive by them, to tell them how bad it is. In the dream I was in her house and we were all going to her unveiling. I guess she was there and not there. I went to the bathroom and gave birth.

Yar yar yar life and death. And ice cream. And hide and seek. Real estate and parking lots and swimming pools and baseball camp. Hospitals. Apple sauce. That fucking aquarium. A few years ago, when a friend of mine had a son who was also under its spell, we used to call each other and try to sing the songs.