It’s been decades since I saw the shrimp boats coming up the bayou from a weekend at sea — or danced with witches on the shores of the Ponchartrain — or smelled the spanish moss, at its most fragrant in the morning and evening golden hours.
It was before Katrina’s arrival, that cleaned the haze of sex and alcohol out of the New Orleans aura, that I remember walking Magazine Street and getting lost in the Garden District on my first drive into town from Thibodaux. I pulled to the side, in front of one of those mansions, and just cried at how damn beautiful it all was…
It’s my 50th year on this earth.
Too many of those spent in landlocked Missouri.
I want to go back down da bayou….
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