Calcutta. Now.

I found the videos. Charging the battery to the video camera, searching for the cables to plug it into the TV.

Pilgrimage. Eight hours of footage cracking open now.

In the midst of packing the first box to move from Berkeley to Portland, I ask myself why, suddenly, the journey seven years ago is so important to look back at now. That's the thing. I don't understand the non-linear web, just enough to know that I won't be looking back at all.

Something awaits that has to do with the beginning, all those childhood journals, the sitting manuscript on my desk, and the disassembling of one house in preparation for another. All now.

I turn this time thing in thought moments ago, as River stands on her step stool. She extends a hand and calls to me by name. But not by my name now. My childhood name. I stop. With my back to her, chills up my spine, I am caught in the web. I turn to face the smiling two year old (who has never heard that name repeated ever, anywhere) and stare. A bit frightened, I ask, "What did you say?" Still waiting for my hand she reaches out, "Step, step, jump," she says.

Grasshopper sees mama in ways mama can barely see.