I was occasionally taken out of school
in those days.
My parents, placing importance
on culture and travel, would appear at my classroom door
and whisk me away to a Broadway musical
in the city.
“I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair”
played over and over in my ten year old head.

The excitement of a train ride to New Orleans.
Crisp white linens on the backs of our seats.
Dressed up people and shiny crystal in the dining car.

A grand hotel amassed with men in business suits.
Daddy attended the convention,
Mama and I saw New Orleans.
The French Quarter, delicious food,
a tour guide who told us ghost stories
as I mentally stepped into moss draped stately manors
and felt chills go up my spine.

Balconies created in intricate swirls of iron,
the likes of which I had never seen.
French accents everywhere, as if we were in France.
Narrow streets which felt cozy and inviting.

Many more trips to the Big Easy
as I grew up and finally grew
to fear what lay behind the once cozy streets.

Now I pray for the people
who have survived a disaster
among history and rusting saxophones.
Wet tangled moss wrapped around ancient downed trees.
A tragedy, Lives washed away as the music
is replaced with desperate cries for help.