What do we remember on a day when the past is as elusive as the future and as unreal? Is it quantity or quality that turns Lisa into sacrifice? Today we knelt on the grass by the campus Shakespeare garden in full view of aggressive twisted blooming trees of magenta and of white, the white stalks of flowers bobbing like so many phalloi—tree full of dicks, we called it, half laughing and half sobbing, walled in by the moment that’s swallowed what we used to call time. The past isn’t past, yadda yadda. The touching tenderness of her time-traveling flesh.