Reclaimed

Part 1

I heard the river say your name. I know I did. I couldn't be imagining things – that wasn't like me. The Mississippi had a way about her that made everything around her shift into place. We came to her – we built around her. She centered this mystical Crescent City.

The sound of my footsteps was almost inaudible but echoed through me. The sun had just risen over the bridge. I watched from afar. From past Algiers and the French Quarter, way beyond the Garden District and familiarity of the Metairie. No, I stood in the Bywater. I stood watching the day begin to unfold for the rest of the city. The industriousness of the area always drew me to it. I liked the way machines made me feel. Or at least the idea of machines. Their form, rigid and exact, repeated day in and day out with perfect precision. There was something comforting about that. But I couldn't drag myself where I needed to go. Where I knew you were.

Humans have a special way of ruining everything we touch. It's been happening for centuries. It even happened here in New Orleans. But the earth regains its city. The earth begins to spread its fingers through everything, I think as I notice plucky weeds pushing their way through the cement sidewalks.

Katrina's hands spread through the city a year ago. The city had begun to recover. The efforts of the communities to rebuild and come together were something that I saw all around me. There was beauty in human relationships. Sometimes. But that's not why I'm here.

My head rose and fell across the glassy surface of the water. Even though my bed and breakfast offered no breakfast, they offered the creature comforts of a small swimming pool with an even smaller space for politeness.

"God. I don't understand how people can let themselves go like that," my kind host muttered from the kitchen.

She seemed nice.

The aforementioned woman owned a sizeable home in the Garden District of New Orleans. The mansion, if you will, was three stories tall and built around 1830. It was supposedly haunted, but I hadn't seen a ghost yet. I guess it would draw attention to the home, make it more appealing to the crazies who come to this city to see into the echoes of 'other side'. I wasn't so sure. But there was something about this city, when the light streaks through a weeping willow, when a stranger offers to play you a saxophonic tune, when you get lost in an alley or antique store in the French Quarter – one is reminded that just maybe the other side does exist. A magical and wholly different side of the world we know. Just the possibility excites me.

I've come to realize that humans – myself included – much prefer the idea of things than the thing itself. The possibility of something is always better than the outcome. Our minds have a way of weaving a plot that is so unrealistic we have a hard time determining why we even wanted the situation to work out that way in the first place.

You cannot get lost in your mind. You cannot get lost in your mind. But I do. I am. I stop swimming and exit the pool. My small towel offers little protection from cold air against my warm, dripping skin.

Barbara, the Mansion Owner, is an older woman – probably her late 60's. You can tell she inherited this house from someone. You can tell this isn't what she wanted. She mutters soft words of contempt as she shuffles from room to room catering to her guests. Barbara Mullens isn't the grandmotherly type of woman. Her pinpricked face always seems to hasten some sort of misguided opinion. She is the only person I have met so far who doesn't enjoy this city in one way or another.

"How was your swim?" she offered.

"Fine, but it was a bit cold out there today. Odd for June." I stated. Her right eyebrow slowly crept up her overly painted face and she looked down.