Time isn't linear. Time is cylindrical. Time winds on itself, layering present and past and further past until which is which isn't distinguishable, isn't material. There was a girl who said Hi, eleshant! whenever we drove up our regular commute route. And faithfully, each day, the red pachyderm saluted her with his upraised trunk.
And now there is a girl who looks so much like that other girl, who speaks with the same enthusiasm, the same inflection, the same mispronunciation.
Hi, eleshant! she says, and faithfully he returns her salute with an upraised trunk.
Behold, the omniscient guardian of New Hampshire Avenue.
Because some milestones are temporal, and some are welded and painted.