The day you once refused.
I feel fatigued. Tired is not the word, quite. Not sleepy. My eyes feel like swollen prunes and my muscles are staticky. (Nothing compared to the refugees of New Orleans. A sympathetic pain with the faces and bodies that made up the settings of the most memorable days of my life.) I couldn't sleep later than I had, and so I finally watched the news. And, again, I found myself crying.
Early in the week, I cried for fear. I cried for friends that I hadn't heard from. I cried anxiously. I tried not to cry and felt my eyes begin to ache and my head.
As the week wore on, I cried for people that I barely knew. I cried for familiar strangers whose names I did not know; whose names, therefore, I will never find on a survivors list. I cried for frail old Bill, who left his poor wife after a month of marriage to spend his lottery winnings with a hooker in Biloxi, who returned to find that his wife had died, who spent the next decade of his life gazing tragically into cheap beers and attempting to re-imagine her last days, imagine himself there with her, who was alone and sad, who may or may not have been swallowed up in the waters and the fires this week. I cried for Miss Linda, the foul-mouthed cleaning-lady, who put curses on her lover when her husband was released from prison. I cried for neighbors whose lives remained closed from me. I cried for the dark woman who once sat across from me on the streetcar, whispering to an invisible ear, smiling vacantly. I cried for the old black man who sat outside the laundromat on Prytania, who always asked how I felt, who always seemed to remember the exact day of my arrival, who always made that little block seem like a home.
Today, I cried for the city, as I watched the aerial views, as I listened to Harry Connick, Jr. sing "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?" I thought about Molly's last visit and our tourist-traipsing through the French Quarter. I said that I wanted to see the things that I'd always meant to see. We waved umbrellas in a silly little second line. We listened to a tiny black lady belt out "Wild Woman's Blues." We drank champagne at the Carousel Bar, dizzying with the steady spin, watching the street outside pass and then disappear, re-appear and pass again. I thought about Jack and I on my birthday in Bourbon Street bars, reminiscing and laughing and then, when I'd had too much, crying on his shoulder again.
I had to put parts of the poem "Boundaries" on this site because, again, it has become a mantra. The line "a mirror, a summer, a street" passes through my mind over and over again like a ticker on an all-news channel. Pacheco once felt the way that I have felt so many times. I imagine that's why the poem repeats itself and brings me comfort. It's not optimistic, but it's sympathetic and compassionate.
Early in the week, I cried for fear. I cried for friends that I hadn't heard from. I cried anxiously. I tried not to cry and felt my eyes begin to ache and my head.
As the week wore on, I cried for people that I barely knew. I cried for familiar strangers whose names I did not know; whose names, therefore, I will never find on a survivors list. I cried for frail old Bill, who left his poor wife after a month of marriage to spend his lottery winnings with a hooker in Biloxi, who returned to find that his wife had died, who spent the next decade of his life gazing tragically into cheap beers and attempting to re-imagine her last days, imagine himself there with her, who was alone and sad, who may or may not have been swallowed up in the waters and the fires this week. I cried for Miss Linda, the foul-mouthed cleaning-lady, who put curses on her lover when her husband was released from prison. I cried for neighbors whose lives remained closed from me. I cried for the dark woman who once sat across from me on the streetcar, whispering to an invisible ear, smiling vacantly. I cried for the old black man who sat outside the laundromat on Prytania, who always asked how I felt, who always seemed to remember the exact day of my arrival, who always made that little block seem like a home.
Today, I cried for the city, as I watched the aerial views, as I listened to Harry Connick, Jr. sing "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?" I thought about Molly's last visit and our tourist-traipsing through the French Quarter. I said that I wanted to see the things that I'd always meant to see. We waved umbrellas in a silly little second line. We listened to a tiny black lady belt out "Wild Woman's Blues." We drank champagne at the Carousel Bar, dizzying with the steady spin, watching the street outside pass and then disappear, re-appear and pass again. I thought about Jack and I on my birthday in Bourbon Street bars, reminiscing and laughing and then, when I'd had too much, crying on his shoulder again.
I had to put parts of the poem "Boundaries" on this site because, again, it has become a mantra. The line "a mirror, a summer, a street" passes through my mind over and over again like a ticker on an all-news channel. Pacheco once felt the way that I have felt so many times. I imagine that's why the poem repeats itself and brings me comfort. It's not optimistic, but it's sympathetic and compassionate.
posted by Autumn at 8:47 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home