The lamp in the living room needed fixing, I thought, so I took it to the light store. As it turned out, the lamp worked—it was the light bulbs that were broken—but then it also turned out that the lamp could be rewired and fitted with a harp for a new shade while I waited. I sat down in a chair by the couple who own the store and talked about lamp shades and children and holidays and I pretended that they were my grandparents, whom I miss very much. Everything at this light store is wonderful: First of all that it is a light store, and the ceiling is thick with lights, the walls are covered in lights, floor lamps crowd the floor, and table lamps sit on any available surface; secondly, that the philosophy of the people who own the light store is total shamelessness regarding what can be a lamp, they will turn absolutely anything into a lamp, including an old tennis racquet with a ball stuck to it and a light bulb stuck on it next to the ball; thirdly that there is candy everywhere, in little dishes and desk drawers; fourthly that they fix your lamps quickly and inexpensively, while you wait; and finally that even things that are not really broken can be taken there and fixed.

You want to know more about vacation. It’s not enough that we caught a fish and it lay dying in a metal box at our feet and then we ate it and it was delicious. Even if I had told you that its gills were “frightening ... fresh and crisp with blood,” like Elizabeth Bishop said they would be, that wouldn’t be enough. How was it really, Carey? Did the children have fun? Did you eat lobster? Did you play tennis? Did you get some sleep? Tell us how it was, how it was, how it was.

You guys have a crazy idea of vacation.

Elizabeth Murray died while we were away, and I didn’t know it until yesterday. When my Nana died I expected to find her death in the papers, and for Murray’s death I expected to be called and told. I didn’t know Murray, of course, but I loved her, and shouldn’t I have been told?

Murray was a real artist, she addressed directly what art should be and what art should be about, she took me to school, and I’m sorry she died. She was young, and still painting. In fifth grade she sold erotic drawings to her classmates. She understood sex and babies and the way the daily stuff is eternal, and she made paintings that embodied all of this. Another way I've been thinking about this is, She understood that everything is a problem, and she loved that about everything.

As for Nana, well, she was the most important person in the world and I’m still surprised so few people knew it. When she got into the back of a car so that she could lie down comfortably for the ride somewhere—she was old, her legs troubled her—you knew that she lay in the back of the car with her feet up as a full person, as a mind that never rested, always pushing and thinking and loving.

Henry and I like to play Sorry! together. Henry doesn’t know how much I like to play it, because I never offer to play it. But I always hope he will ask if we can.

We fought over Sorry! this morning. He was losing and so he said he wanted me to win and was trying to move his pieces so that I would win. I said this was not an acceptable way to play a game. I said we wouldn’t play the game if he played this way. He continued to play this way. I said the game was over and removed our pieces. He cried and said I was mean and retreated to the play room, where a very meaningful pillow was thrown at me as I entered. By this point I had realized that I should have just walked away from the game, instead of dismantling it. It had been childish of me to dismantle it. I didn't say that to Henry, but I apologized for ending the game. He said that I was mean to apologize for something I had done wrong.

Eventually we played two more games. He won the first and I won the second.

For years at bedtime Henry wanted us to tell him stories. There were rules, his rules: The stories had to be true, and they couldn’t be repeated. Now John has started making this request, but I think he’s too young for the stories we used to tell his brother. Last night he asked for a story about Papa, and I told him that once Papa was angry with his mother, and decided to punish her by running away. (Henry loved this story.) Young Papa went to tell his mother he was going to run away, because he thought she’d be very sorry for what she had done, but instead she said, If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a thermos and a sweater. Papa thought to himself: This is bad. Then his mother took him to the front door and said goodbye. He wandered a little while on his street, maybe sat under a bush somewhere, then came home and rang the bell. He was readmitted.

Johnny’s eyes were huge in the dark. I found myself tacking a hasty, bad lesson onto the thing: It’s better to stay with your mommy in the house. John was relieved. Yes, it’s better to stay with Mommy. Then he wanted another story.

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.