I am spinning Paul's globe. I close my eyes and plant my finger on a country. Turkey.

Paul keeps showing me photographs. They are blurry, indistinct. I still imagined Mr. Roberts as Columbus from last Halloween, Mrs. Roberts as Snow White.

I tell him to put the photographs away. He doesn't hear me, or doesn't care. He wants to read me his mother's diary.

We usually travel. We usually pretend we are discovering new places. I want to go to Madagascar, Tibet.

Paul is reciting his mother's poetry.

When I leave, he follows me to the door, Polaroids in hand, and waves.

My mother is cooking dinner. I watch her set the table, place the knives, forks. I watch her remove her apron, her slippers. In the bathroom I see her putting on makeup, mascara, lipstick.

When my father arrives, they kiss.

I decide to ask them for a camera.