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I asked Annie to paint a scene inspired by this passage from chapter 2, in which my sister and I are small children: One morning, my little white fish was not flicking in and out of her plastic seaweed, blowing hello-bubbles to me. She was resting on the surface of the water, swaying with its ripples. I didn’t understand; I touched her; I touched her again; then Emily told me about the word “dead.” I didn’t cry. Together we scooped her pearly finger of a body into an empty margarine tub and dug a hole for her under the maple tree with our bare hands. I marked her with a cross made of two twigs. Emily told me, too, that even though we had seen her filmy, unmoving body disappear under the damp dirt, my fish was not actually still. She was swimming in the sky.
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