A ghost of the past

As we all know, one year ago today, Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans like a straight-razor through cheap fabric, leaving a trail of incomperable destruction and despair in its wake. I remember staring at the TV in horror and thinking, No way, there's been a mistake. No way is that the "Big EZ."

Just a week prior to that, I had sipped margaritas and laughed the night away at my cousin's house near the New Orlean's levies; I had walked the street of the French Quarter and sipped coffee at the legendary Dumond, the joyous strains of jazz resonating from every corner. Now, the streets were as silent as a cemetary, and my cousin's house was destroyed.

Anxiously, I watched TV, hoping to see the familiar faces of family members. I wished with all my heart to see Uncle F's housekeeper, "E" who just the week before had smoothed my hair back from my face, kissed my ckeek, and said "Everything will be okay, child," as I sat in her kitchen and vented about the slowness of a publisher's response. But I saw no one I knew in the sea of upturned faces, faces filled with horror and unimaginable grief.

We worried the most about Uncle F, a seventy-six year-old priest who was beginning to show his age. As the days past, we learned "E" and the family members had escaped; Uncle F, on the other hand, and faced his car into the storm and ventured to a hospital to assist the staff and administer last rights to the dying. We learned he was in one of hopitals that was nearly impossible to evacuate. A week later he was rescued, along with the other occupants of the hospital.

We thank God for everyone rescued and mourn those who weren't. New Orleans, like so many other parts of the South, will "rise again,"; but will it be the same carefree city of yester year? Sadly, no.

I hope it soon finds the one thing it's lacking, the one thing money can't be used for, peace.