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It was one year ago today I landed at Sydney Kingsford-Smith Airport on a cloudy and chilly Sunday morning, Mother's Day in Australia, dazed and skinny and calmly confident. Made small talk with a bombshell blonde from Vancouver in line at customs, my first social intercourse in days. Retrieved my single suitcase, rented a car for a week, changed into a new shirt and pants in a cramped men's room stall, and made off for Aradhna's parents' place in Kellyville Ridge. Mrs Sharma had sent a text message while I crossed the Pacific requesting they be alerted of my landing in Sydney. I did so, but didn't call or text Aradhna.

She didn't know I was coming.

To be specific, nobody beside the Sharmas knew of my last-second trip to Australia (I'd sought permission to visit their home, where Aradhna was living post-back surgery). The trans-Earth relationship Aradhna and I struggled to maintain for 17 months had swallowed a bottle of pills, slashed its wrists, shoved its head in an oven and hurled itself off a tall building. We hadn't spoken in weeks and, suffice to say, were no longer engaged. The only people beside the Sharmas aware that I'd traveled anywhere were Lainie and Bill of Deal Lake Tower in Asbury Park, but I'd said nothing about my destination or purpose when Lainie had driven me to the Long Branch train station that Friday afternoon.

Outside her car at the station, Lainie gave me a hug, wished me luck and asked what in the hell I was doing. "Looking for answers" was my response. It still is. And I hope it always will be.