Déjà Vu

If I close my eyes, I can smell the flowers. Roses. Lavender.

Memories of Provence linger like wisps of smoke. When I reach for them, they disappear. But right before the dawn, in that place between dreams and daylight, I hear the wind in the cypress trees, and I feel the sun on my face.

In Provence, I heard the murmur of ancient generations and sensed my own insignificance in the timeline of history.

It felt like home in some deeply Daja vu kind of way. It was an uncanny feeling of familiarity.

It pulls at me, tugs at my primeval memory to remember....remember.