I visit the place after decades. An invisible presence takes me down the zigzaggy route in drowsy quiet. A certain bend motions me to pause. I see a path branching off and stretching away to a blurring point.
The clock turns back in an instant.
I remember it leads to a temple where she and I once tied a piece of cloth carrying our names around the trunk of a wish-fulfilling tree. I feel the stirring in memory’s dying roots.
Does it still exist?
There’re more paper tags than leaves on the tree, hanging from its branches like torn kites.