New Orleans The Louisiana moon hangs low in the dark velvet of the night sky and although I know that this moon is shared by the world, tonight it belongs only to my New Orleans. Its pale glow paints the richly mottled buildings of this city a perfect shade of ghostly white and as my gaze drinks up each familiar pillar, column and looming church tower, I know for certain that I am finally home. The past few nights have been spent becoming reacquainted with my beloved city. In my absence this old neglected property has become perfected in ruin as a testament to the power of time. The scent of magnolia blossoms hangs thickly in the air. Wild climbing vines cover most of the outside walls and have eaten away at what was once solid brick and an overgrown giant cypress tree in the front garden has obscured the house from view. If one were to look close enough while wandering past the curling cast-iron gate, the soft flicker of a single candle’s flame might be seen through the darkened glass of an upstairs window. Yet I do not live in fear of being discovered. If I have mastered any one skill over the past two hundred years, it is to move in silence where curious mortal eyes never reach me. I need nothing more than this. As much as I enjoyed the modern Paris residence, I am far more comfortable in this simple setting. Tonight is oppressively humid. Despite the history that has bound us close these streets remain as unchanging as I am. They disregard my return here as they have indifferently watched the centuries marching through. This place is the only constant in my life. The past is intact and still, locked within the walls of this modern city. And as I make my way down the silent, lamp-lit streets of the Garden District I can hear its faint whisper like the rustling of so many thick leaves. It rings out clearly in the off-key peal of the cathedral bells. Memories of times long gone are stirred by the warm Louisiana breeze to sigh in the heat. I move deeper into the heart of the city. The carnival atmosphere of Jackson Square draws me to it as it always has. It hosts an endless parade of celebration shadowed only by the bone-white beauty of the St. Louis Cathedral which stands as an elegant and wordless sentinel. The clopping hooves of the mule drawn carriages as they carry delighted tourists around the square can be heard in the distance and if I close my eyes for just a moment I can drown out the sounds of the revelry and passing motorised traffic to take a nostalgic step back into the New Orleans of my time. Ah, but all of that has come and gone. I am a part of the one city that holds my greatest joy and my deepest despair. In this moment feel it all now as strongly as I ever did and the night calls me to my final destination. The locked iron gates pose no barrier to me. I have visited this place so many times before that nothing can keep me from it. I take a few steps inside and find myself surrounded by the massive marble tombs. The path ways are overgrown. Tropical weeds sprout from cracks in the ancient masonry, their claw-like vines reaching out to snare the ankle of any unsuspecting passer-by. It is quite treacherous for any mortal to wander in this unyielding darkness. The sacred ground of this place requires a careful or wraithlike step. I slip down the narrow path between the very oldest tombs to this familiar stone structure. It marks the grave of a young man who died tragically when his plantation house burned to the ground. I run my fingers gently over the dirt-blackened inscription that is carved into the weathered marble slab as if I could gather something of him to me. Louis de Pointe du Lac ~ 1766 - 1794 Tonight I lay the ghosts of my past to rest here at this empty tomb. I have allowed them to haunt me for far too long. Although New Orleans will always hold my most precious memories, they will torment me no longer. One glance into the unseeing eyes of these weathered marble statues serves as a reminder that I have been blind to the refining eternity that lies before me. I must accept this life, whatever it is, and move forward from this point. My future is not here in the city of the dead amongst the crumbling tombs and rusted iron gates but out beyond these cemetery walls, wandering the streets of the living and breathing in the atmosphere of New Orleans; the source of all my future joys and sorrows, one night at a time. It’s good to be home.
