A month has passed since my time in Mortagne- a month since I walked the narrow medieval streets of the county seat my ancestor helped to build.
He left for the New World in 1634. I returned for a day in May, soaking in the French countryside sun, envisioning my ancestral countrymen coming home from their fields outside the city walls.
I run at dawn through the patchwork fields, through the winding streets, breathing heavy on saturated air-
my soul recognizes a piece of itself.