I have to marvel at how spontaneously memory is triggered through a simple re-enactment of a task. I had it in mind to visit Adam. It was Sunday, yet Philip was at work at Alf’s. The day was sunny and warm, the mist all but cleared save for the deeps of the valley where the river flowed. I wended my way about the garden, picking herbs for a bouquet, a small offering in return for Adam’s generosity the other day. I chose rosemary, lavender, sage and thyme, all in flower with their exquisitely small purple petals. I placed the flowers in the large, flat-bottomed wicker basket that lived on the stoop by the back door. It was mother’s basket. The one she used to collect her flowers. With the basket filled, I wandered inside. As I set the basket down on the kitchen table, those flower-gathering
