A trip back to Berkeley is like running one’s finger along a tree’s ring to determine its age. Everything is an approximation. It’s hard to remember what was.

The longest concentric circle; the cafeteria where I worked. First Foothill. Then Clark Kerr. Then Foothill again. That’s where I met an American Idol. We were all living la vida loca.

Trace me back to Maxwell Field where I lost myself. The only thing that mattered was hitting the ball over the fence. Try finding it along the Piedmont Avenue bushes. There’s a parking lot now.

Of course, not everything is startling new. There are things still gentle, like a walk up Strawberry Canyon.

You can still get ranch with your fries at Bongo Burger. Pegasus Books has a cat now. The Morrison Library will still shush you. How many rings on the trunk is that?

The McDonalds on Shattuck Avenue is still there. Do you remember?

The same one where I saw Dev days after 9/11. He told me not to be scared about flying back home. He said hundreds of planes take flight without an incident. Hundreds. You only hear about the ones that didn’t make it.

Remind me, do trees grow back after they’ve been cut down? I feel nostalgic for things that never happened. How do you forget that?

You only hear about the ones that didn't make it