June 26. My son remembers the trashy lights in the buses. My daughter is delighted with the sea of red taillights at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. The smell of gasoline and trash in the streets. We go to the playground, to Playa Betty’s and their old school. Everything instantly comes alive with countless details. The children are more moved by the memories than children, I think, should be. It makes me scared. Then again, there are millions of biographies like this.