Proust

Proust had his madeleine, the cookie that crumbled in his tea and released the legendary flood of memories in his masterwork. Walking through the park one August morning, I spotted a catalpa tree. The sight of its enormous dangling green beans was enough to send me tumbling through the years till I spilled out on the lawn of my childhood home, a boy again, underneath the massive leafy crown of the catalpa I knew growing up.