There is no father in the story, and after mine left I read the book again, trying to understand why. After the divorce we moved to a different house, one that seemed empty and lonely and full of despair, Where the Wild Things Are packed away with the other books we had outgrown and only occasionally got out to read, nights when the moon came over

Or perhaps he was monster becoming more human.

we would never understand, that for the rest of our lives when any of this was mentioned, we would shake our heads sadly and stare at the floor until the moment passed.

this was not an accident.

There is no sprinkler in the backyard, and no one to run through it.

My younger daughter was ten or eleven at the time, and wanted everything to be magical, or at least out of the ordinary.

I like the Asian feeling,

but in the time that has passed what is left is a feeling deeper than sadness. But it is less painful. It is like trees in November, or birdsong before first light; something intangible, full of memory and heartache: a child’s clean smell, a faint memory of your mother, a daughter’s first steps.

it looked serious, and driving there, the day was so bright it hurt the muscles behind my eyes.