The picture

One day fourteen years ago while living in Anchorage, Alaska, I was shopping at Burlington Coat Factory. A picture caught my eye of a cafe in France. There was something about that cafe that spoke to me. I felt a deep connection to the ornamental iron facade, the street corner in an unknown location, the space.

That picture came with every move. I tenderly packed it as though it were a family heirloom. When I arrived in Anacortes, Washington, I needed to size down the photo to fit my tiny little abode. The integrity of the picture maintained, the fluff removed. Through all the remodeling work and purging for a move I thought I was going to make; the picture remained with me.

In November of 2005, one morning before the Parisians rise to the occasion, I was wandering the side streets of Paris breathing in the richness from the nearby boulangerie. I came to a fork in the road, literally. When I looked up, there the picture that stayed with me all these years, was right in front of me. It was as real as the goosebumps present on my forearms.

My heart felt as though I had returned to the space designated only for me. I stood there in a trance of past, present, and future. I do not know the address, nor did I write it down.

My internal compass is all knowing. This trip, my first trip to Europe started my journey home.