Halfway across the Ballard bridge, next to the linked girders that support the section that rises to let the masts of boats pass across, the bridge seems less than half as vast but more like the continuation of a story from its beginning over a century ago to its end in an unknown future when many of us will have passed over. On one side is home on a hill, hidden by buildings and trees. On the other side fishing boats at Fishermen’s Terminal, white masts crossed by ropes beside empty berths that signify crews working on the Pacific. All our stories start in the middle, and end in the middle, and we float as it were on a high metal grate watching the gray waters below.