On the tram, Willa grills me about the four Hogwarts houses in the Harry Potter books. “Don’t help her,” she says to everyone. “Go.” All the names of everything have oozed out and away from the drainage holes menopause has punched into my memory storage. “Dumbledore,” I say, and Willa laughs. “Good, Mom. Dumbledore.” “No, no,” I say. “Not Dumbledore. Jesus. I read these books to you, like, eleventy zillion times. Dumbledore?” “Still not Dumbledore,” Willa says. “Whiffenpoofs?” I say. “Yup,” she says, laughing. “Snivelin? Weaslyton? Fuck.” “You got them all,” she says. She is laughing so hard
...more
