I wrote this in August 2006, a year after Katrina and not quite a year before we moved to Austin. I like looking backwards to reassess how I felt, and to compare that to how I feel now. Anyway, it’s a bit of a love letter to Louisiana.
Random musings on home and weather
I’ve been sitting on my front porch for over an hour.
The weather is cooler tonight and there is the tiniest breeze that flutters the leaves in the renegade tree/bush that has planted roots in the ground and is threatening to overtake my porch steps.
It’s rained heavily today. It’s muggy, but pleasantly so. These are the nights I can feel the promise of autumn and it cheers me. I look forward to a respite from the heat. I hope that with the cooler weather the miasma that has settled over this area will dissipate. Or maybe that takes more time and mending than another season. Maybe this stagnation is emotional, not climatic.
The crickets are out, singing their evening ditties, and on nights like these I wonder how I could ever move. I forget that I have plans and dreams that take me away from here.
I told Courtney that it breaks my heart to move, even as I anticipate the change. I view our leaving as an extended vacation and told her that when I die I want to come home. Bury my bones in this soft, sandy soil that has nurtured me. Let me in turn nurture it. Let me become part of my home as it has entered my blood and changed me.
Louisiana was my wet nurse, if not my mother. And through her I imbibed a love of wet weather, long evenings, an appreciation for the seasons, a respect for the changing skies. I share this funky psyche that bubbles up from brine and mud. I will come home.
The night is getting cooler, the crickets louder. The train is coming near and offers a long whistle, a dying note as accompaniment. I wish I could blow a million wet kisses to the sky, the earth, the water whose presence I feel without seeing it. I admire that damn plant for staking its claim, for blossoming and raging ahead, never mind the obstacles of a porch or trampling feet. The gardenias are trying to bloom once more and I breathe deeply, wishing I could trap that exact scent of dirt, rain, bloom, and heat. I’ll miss this.