My eyes are drawn to the tree that has not sprung buds. From its thick trunk, the branches meander, becoming ever more spindly as they ascend into the glare of sunlight. These dendrites are freighted with thoughts and memories, initially clotted, eventually unloosening of their own accord. I follow the one that carries the gustatory: the flaky schnecken in my hand, bought today from a local bakery as it reminded me of the pain aux raisins I ate daily, without fail, in Paris years ago. Now, it is a gratuitous purchase -as I was not hungry. It is my madeleine for the day.
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