Washed Away

Turns out she didn’t take it. I got her on the phone a week ago and she confessed that, although she’d put it in a briefcase near the front door, it didn’t make it out. My heart dropped a notch; here was something else about New Orleans I’d have to be forever satisfied just hearing about.

“Funny what you think about when you go,” said Shirley, sounding much more tired than grieved. She’d thought of relocating in Little Rock but has changed her mind and is coming out here, probably to stay. She’s got a son in Santa Clarita and “he’s the only one of us who’s got a house,” she said. Earthquakes or no, this is where she’s heading. This is where family is now.

My mother has also spoken to Shirley but of course didn’t ask her about the anniversary party — the occasion of Shirley being 50 years married, of raising a family and making a life in a city she never thought she’d leave, has already been marked. My mother talks about Shirley’s loss — of money spent on caterers and such, of her disappointment.

“Poor New Orleans,” my mother ends up saying, with more sentiment than I’ve ever heard her express about the place she left some 50 years ago, but obviously kept close to her heart.

I know what she means. Here in the splendid desert of my native town, free from violent storms and the infamous strictures of New Orleans’ past, I am more homeless than she’ll ever know.