Every once in a while, I ride the train past a spot where I know for a fact that there was a serious train accident a few years ago. Whole train lifted off the rails, flew over a canal and landed on its side in a field. (No fatalities among passengers — good safety design.)

I saw the aftermath with my own eyes. I can mark exactly where it made impact in a random nondescript field. But the scars are gone. Anyone who didn’t already know would never guess what a strange, memorable thing happened in this boring field.

I think all land inhabited by humans must be like this. Pockmarked by psychic scars of the strange, fantastic, wonderful and terrible, the best and worst moments of someone’s life. And it just looks like some billowing grass.