Going through a bin of old correspondence, clearing out this and that, stopping to read along the way, remembering and being reminded of much I’d forgotten, lingering over a few letters from a friend travelling in Australia, back when we were in our twenties, thirties, news of people and events, sorrows and joy, none of it relevant anymore, except one small passage: the description of a jacaranda tree, which I don’t even remember reading then and yet, now, thirty years later it stands out as the only thing that matters.

When I mention it to her, she remembers it well.