Today I saw hot cross buns at a bakery.

Immediately, I remember. This time last year I was eating them in Sydney, in Melbourne. I was eating chocolate eggs and bunnies.

I close my eyes and the aroma comes wafting into my nose: the freshly baked chocolate hot cross buns we ate as we walked out of the bakery, the squished up six-buns-per-pack we ate in the train from Sydney to Melbourne, the wrinkled plastic bag, eyes heavy with sleep…

It’s funny how memories get stored up in a little bun that’s made of cheap, white flour. I look at it and I think, you’re so familiar.

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