treading water in the dark

[babaghannouge]

Today I recieved my very first issue of The New Yorker. The front cover is a washed-out watercolor of a saxaphone player standing above an ocean of a city. In the background, red houses gurgle up from the vast blue and the potted plants in the window droop as if exhausted. A streetlamp peeks through, waving its attached street signs ("Bourbon" and something unreadable) like tiny arms. You can almost hear the saxaphone wailing into the coming night. Sometimes when I take my dog for a walk at night, I get scared by the trees or the cars or the occasional animal, and I think about my house and how I know that in a few streets or so, I'll be able to see my own glowing windows and probably my Dad through the french doors in his office. But in New Orleans right now, there are no homes. Threre are no streets and there are no cars and sometimes there are no Dads. I have no concept of what it is to lose, or to be lost, and I cannot possibly imagine.

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