This is me; calm, standing in the crowd knowing that
everything will fall in to place.
Like dominoes set up to get tipped over you stand unknowingly that the start is the beginning of the end. How is it possible that you do not remember me? You have seen me a thousand times before, and I have looked straight in to your eyes. Still, you call me by a name that is not mine.
I remember the city of Florence and the beautiful summers the seven of us spent running through the wheat harvest. I was just Lisa then, fifteen and the eldest of us all; unknowingly, still so young. Who would have known that between then and now lifetimes would set us apart…
