Recently we visited the house we lived in when young. No one we knew was still there. We were left to peek through the gate — only able to see a little bit of the Italianate cupola above the leaves. A remote folly. After letting a few memories fail at an arrangement, we walked away from the house down to “the river” at the end of the street. The river isn’t really a river. It is a long and narrow inlet that looks like a river; the “current” flows in different directions depending on the tides. As a child we spent much time there. The banks are either dense with trees or full of tan and tall reeds. Desiring to come upon a familiar nook, we ambled to one of the tree filled areas — a bank above a sandy patch. We scanned the landscape trying to materialize past affinities. From this squat bluff, looking down at the beach we could see a young girl. She was thoroughly ensconced at the end of a row of small haphazard sand piles. Apparently she was burying things. From a grey blue canvas bag she removed one of those orange-jacketed hard drives and placed it in the small hole; then covered it with sand. Dragging her bag and moving a little further on, she dug another hole and placed in it what looked like a notebook, and covered that too with sand. It was odd, but we had thought better of asking what she was up to. Perhaps lost in thought, we meandered further up about a quarter mile to a reed field — a wind was blowing through; the sound was beguiling.