Hannah had a pair of my mother’s underpants on her head, and William had wrapped a graying bra around his neck. “Look at me, look at me!” he shouted, bouncing up and down. I was sitting on the bed and watching my mother pack. Into the suitcase she dropped several very worthy books, a selection of legal journals, cotton shirts and skirts in pastel shades, trousers, a digital camera, still in its box, sunglasses still with a price tag attached, a new swimsuit, goggles, and an unopened bottle of sunblock. My mother has long white-gray hair and a dowdy gray wardrobe. She had never, as long as I remember, exposed her white skin to the sun. “I thought this was supposed to be a spiritual retreat,” I said. “They have a pool?” “They have a pool,” my mother answered firmly. “There’s no rule that says Buddhists can’t swim.” “I’m sure they’re wonderful swimmers,”
