In the center of my children’s room there is a mushroom lamp that I purchased at Acorn toy shop on Atlantic Avenue in December. The lamp is red, but when turned on at night, pale green spots speckle River and Oak’s ceiling. The pattern begins in the shape of a V, then pulls wider and lays across the ancient ceiling of our apartment in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. By now, I think I know the exact number of spots on the ceiling. I know the way one breaks at the molding, the way the other hovers over Oak’s closet. There is one more that reflects in the mirror, and I never bother finding its true location. I am someone who is at once thrilled by the unknown and completely fearful of it.