The event that made me who I am today happened when I was twelve years old, on a cold, cloudy day in the winter of 1975. I even remember exactly the moment when, crouched behind a half-ruined fence, I was gazing at the narrow alley near the frozen little river. This happened many years ago, but life has taught me that those who say they can bury the past are wrong, because it claws its way back to the surface with nails and teeth.

One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called me from Pakistan and asked me to come see him. As I stood in the kitchen with the phone receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim calling me, but an entire past of indelible mistakes. When I hung up the phone, I went for a walk along the shores of Lake Spreckels, at the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The afternoon sun made the lake’s waters sparkle, while a bunch of tiny sailboats sailed, pushed by a fresh breeze. I looked up and saw two red kites with long blue tails floating in the air!