From the moment I stepped off the boat, you tangled me up in your rhythms. You overwhelmed me with trumpet blasts and pot liquor, with the way your air clings sweet and heavy, like a whispered secret you don’t want to forget. You fed me oysters and red beans and offered up chance meetings like offerings: here, take this stranger. Take this night. See what unfolds.
I told myself I wouldn’t fall for you. I said I wouldn’t step foot on Bourbon, wouldn’t dance to brass bands in the street, wouldn’t lose myself in your slow, intoxicating spin. But rules are just promises we make to who we used to be. And you, New Orleans, you laugh in the face of promises.
You made me feel seen. Desired, even. Not for who I’ve been or what I do, but just for showing up—curious, open, unsure. You gave me the kind of nights that don’t ask for anything but presence. You gave me fire and softness. You gave me time.
And now I’m leaving.
Not forever, but still—it hurts. I’m towing my little home north. I’ll be back on the coast in a few days, saying goodbye to a place I’ve lived for well over half my life. That alone would be disorienting. But to do it with your taste still on my lips? To carry your music still rattling in my ribs?
Like a punch in the gut I didn’t see coming.
I’m ending this chapter where it began: the quiet café in Bywater where I first fell for you. A gentle morning. A last cup of coffee. Your heat rising in waves off the sidewalk. Your laughter in the distance.
Thank you for everything, sweet. You are wild and generous and radiant with ghosts. You held me when I needed holding. I’ll carry the echo of your brass and thunder.
Yours &cetera
Leave a Reply