My best friend's sister, Emily, looked different from the rest of her family. For instance, she had different posture and facial expressions than anyone in her family. I knew she was of both Russian and Italian descent, but she didn't have those particular mannerisms.

When I was seven or eight, my dad hired a nanny for us from Germany. It was uncanny, because the way she moved and behaved physically, even the tone of her voice when she addressed us, was exactly like Emily's.

When I was around fourteen, I asked Emily's mother if their family had a German ancestry, because Emily certainly gave off that vibe. Her mother looked at me strangely and then told me something that gave me chills. When Emily was only two years old, she told her mom a story about how "the other Emily" was on the streets begging for bread to feed her little children, and how "the daddy" was flying a plane over the town in Germany. She told this story consistently over time and in a very matter-of-fact tone. Her mother was stunned because at that time her daughter had not been exposed to any information about other countries or war or poverty. When I asked Emily about it, she finally admitted that she had dreams about Germany during WWII which she thought were nightmares. She didn't like to talk or think about it, and she "never wants to go back there."

After hearing this, I let myself recall things that I had remembered as a small child. My mother and father were always very Christian and discouraged me from learning about anything metaphysical. I always obeyed them, because of how angry my father once got when I was around six and I told him I might have had other lives. But now I am recalling several things, such as how hard I'd scream and how much I absolutely hated taking baths when I was little, and how I always felt vulnerable and out of place when my hair was done or when I was in a dress, and how I've always had a passion for anything French even though I have never been there. I've had a few spontaneous recalls, enough to realize that I was once a French businessman in the late 1800's/early 1900's.

This realization has always made sense to me, but it was never really confirmed until about a month ago. I went to Buffalo for the weekend, and while I was there I was walking in a very old neighborhood where there were rows of tall, skinny brick houses along the dilapidated sidewalks. When I looked at a particular house with brown-red bricks and a black spindly fence, I had a very vivid flashback that left me as soon as it came.

It was night time and I was coming home to my family. As I walked up to the house, a little blonde girl about nine years old and a little boy, who looked to be six or seven with soft brown hair, were watching me out of the front window. They were in their nightgowns and the room was dimly lit by candlelight, and it was most likely past their bedtime. But seeing their happy faces lit with excitement as they waited for me to enter did not make me cross at their being out of bed.

This image faded in a mere second, but for the entire evening I felt depressed. When I was asked what was wrong, the very first thing that came out of my mouth was, "I am so homesick." I was confused as to why I had said this, because I didn't miss my home or anyone there in the slightest. However, as I analyzed my feelings, the image came back to me of my two sweet little children watching me out the front window, and I began crying hysterically. I never realized how much you could miss someone or some place until that moment.

As time passes, I remember more about my wife and my house. I hope one day to go back to France. Apparently, I have some unfinished business there.

C. B. Caldwin
Lpatronus@aol.com

Posted June 21, 2004