Cathy noticed, in the Luxembourg gardens in Paris, bright velour leaves improbably pushing up into the devastating March chill. Her father Sidney had died two months before, and we fancied that here he was, reinvented as a blossom. Sidney was extremely determined. As was nature, even surrounded by dessication and death in the drab park. I had been thinking about the correlation of death and radiance in the middle of the night, and I wrote it for Cathy’s birthday during an Austrian blizzard, although the Luxembourg and Sidney’s love of soufflés explains the French. Both flowers and soufflés rise from inconceivable beginnings, and fathers hand their daughters new lives each spring, even in absentia.

I couldn’t make up my mind about death’s “unseasonable” or “unreasonable” bouquet, so I leave it to later readers with more definite ideas on logic and weather