I have lived all my life under erasure. Who I am, a lawyer, a writer, a
friend, seems only a trace, the wake a boat leaves in passing. I try so
hard to hold fast its shape, to remember, to preserve, but inevitably the
passage of time does its work of deliverance and loss. Like Dorothea
Lange’s cover image, ‘Gravestone, Utah’1 our memorial to ourselves
and others has been windblasted smooth by time.