I have seen my parents making love. I’ve come home from somewhere, earlier than they’d expected me. I look around but don’t see them, I have something to ask or tell them, where are they? Their bedroom door is shut but it doesn’t stop me, I turn the knob and open it just partway before I see: my mother’s darker body beneath my father’s pale pink and white one, his buttocks pumping up and down, though as soon as he hears the knob he’s already turning his head over his shoulder to look, making a noise of surprise at being discovered, pulling out of her. I close the door and hurry away; I don’t know what to do, go to the kitchen for a glass of water? Soon my mother hurries out of their room in her nightgown, closing the door behind her. She comes to me so solicitously, with such grave concern that it is clear I’ve seen something for which I need to be consoled.

Our class is going to the symphony! All the fourth-grade classes in the city will travel by bus to the university, to Symphony Hall, and the orchestra will offer a program of symphonic music. We are lucky to know the selections ahead of time, so we can understand the beauty and nuance of what we will hear. We study the components of an orchestra, we discuss appropriate behavior (especially the necessity of attentive silence, and the need to discern when a piece is actually over, since the worst thing is to clap between movements, an embarrassment to all concerned).