Today, still a little sick, I take to the street and sun and walk out of the MIT area up towards Harvard. I try to find a centre for environmental humanities. Someone there tells me he just met a bunch of West Australians last week—a foundation I won’t mention. He redirects me to an empty entrance of a building; I take a brochure and walk down to the river Charles, where some 22 years earlier—half a life ago—I stood on a pedestrian bridge one Saturday night in September and watched a bustling 2002 world go passing, walking, sailing by; a kind of mirroring of life—the middle of which would be 33. And I look down on the river again now, reflecting; the bridge and river empty; the sun is warm, sharper than I can handle with illness, and higher than it was 22 years ago.  I begin to head back, but not before cutting through some bushes down to the water’s edge. I throw in a handful of dirt and (re)introduce myself. I remember. It remembers. We remember.