I’d like to believe I’ve known you over many lifetimes.

I’d like to believe I met you in New York City, as you browsed through records on a cold 1962 evening.

Perhaps in Paris at the end of the war.

Tinker parades marching down the “Avenue Montaigne”.

Perhaps you were standing on the corner demanding they “don’t forget Catalonia!”.

Maybe I smiled and accepted a pamphlet and remembered those nostalgic hands.

Maybe then they reminded me of summers in Grimaud and not Christmas in Mexico.