As I stared at the vibrating leaves, I understood that I was having one of my vascular events, here in this walnut grove. The flutter and play of light and leaves was breaking down along the edges of my vision. It would pass, I knew, as it always does. But it had not yet passed. It was happening now, as if proving that Bruno, whom I had thought of here, as a presence in this orchard, was somehow actually here, in the confetti of light and shadow, in the tremble of the leaves.
