Three letters I wrote to New Orleans after the storm.\r\n\r\n<b>8-31-05</b>\r\n\r\nMy Love,\r\n\r\nYou are the first safe place that I have known. Seems strange to say considering your reputation. When we first met, I was young, stupid, self-involved. Even then, I could feel you, see you, I was so drawn to you but could not understand why. The closer I looked, the more I got to know you, I could see that in so many ways, I had been blind. They say that familiarity breeds contempt. That may be true for some, but not for you and I. The longer I loved you, the wider your lips, the more spread your arms.\r\n\r\nYou introduced me to strange and sad and brilliant creatures. You showed me things I never could have imagined. I grew up with you. I am who I am, how I am, in large part because of your influence. You stayed up with me when everyone had gone to sleep. \r\n\r\nYou whispered and shouted and chastised and humiliated me. I watched as so many that I have cared for have cursed your name and blamed you for their failures. I watched you destroy people close to me. I have never been truly alone for as long as I have known you. Even if it may have felt so.\r\n\r\nI adore you, Lover. Your dips and crevices, cracks and curves, the harsh bumps and delicate details. Your rhythm, your age and wisdom. Your cruelty. Your sensitivity. Your aloofness. Your flow and cadence. The blood of you. Your soul. The way you smell in the rain. Your harsh laughter. I am yours. Perhaps I always have been, even at first though I did not know it.\r\n\r\nYou are the first safe place that I have known. Being forcibly separated from you gives me pain like none I have ever felt. This wrenching sob that will not come out.\r\n\r\nSome laugh at my devotion. They acknowledge your beauty but cannot feel your pulse. They do not know what it feels like to be cradled by you. They don\'t \'get it\'. I would feel pity for them but really I can only be grateful that this is mine.\r\n\r\nYou have taken so many lovers. I will not be the last. You are the ultimate whore with a discerning palate. You are Kali and Kali-mah. Mother, saint, fallen woman, so much and now, once again, a supplicant bows at your feet and begs you to be the phoenix. Because I cannot fathom a world without you.\r\n\r\nI would tear apart those that have abused you and continue to do so, even now. Rip out the tongues of those that would slander your name. If I could, I would protect you. But I cannot.\r\n\r\nLover, while I am away, do take care. I know your story and I realize that you will not be the same when I return. But I will return to you. Of course you know that. I will cover your face with my kisses and fill your gaps with my tears. You are the only safe place that I have ever known, my sacred New Orleans.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<b>8-29-06</b>\r\n\r\nMy Love,\r\n\r\nI keep my promises.\r\n\r\nWhile away from you my feet have touched many shores. My lips kissed many cheeks. I have seen the rolling green hills of England. The misty mountains of Scotland. The ancient and holy Rome. The snowy streets of Prague. Beauty that took my breath away. And while I tasted their treasures and enjoyed their bodies, my palate yearned for what you had to offer.\r\n\r\nIncredibly, I saw the love for you in each of these places. From people native to them, other wanderers like me and most of all in my own heart.\r\nIn my time gone I learned so much about everyone, myself included. Once returned I was struck by the ugliness, the cowardice and the determination of people I thought I knew. As I walked your forever changed streets, I felt such calm, such sadness, such desperation. Such a rage that threatened to destroy me. It still does. It threatens us all. And there is no escaping it. I watch as people, strangers and loved ones alike, fall apart. They open and rot, much like you, recognizable, but only barely.\r\n\r\nYour people ache with you. And we are scattered to the edges of these Unites States. No where is safe anymore, Lover. We speak about it in shouts, in rants, on our porches, on stages, at our tables, over cocktails, at sticky tables with powdered sugar on our shoes. Most poignantly, in bed, in the dark with naked legs twining and fingers stroking hair. Letting the fears flow and saying what we cannot when the lights are on.\r\n\r\nI do not know what the future holds for me and mine. But I am home. And I have again touched your dips and crevices, cracks and curves, the harsh bumps and delicate details. I have listened to your rhythm, your age and wisdom. My heart has beat in time with your cruelty. Your sensitivity. Your aloofness. Your flow and cadence. I bleed the blood of you. I mourn your soul. I have cried when I once again experienced the way you smell in the rain. When I\'ve heard your harsh laughter. I am still yours.\r\n\r\nI have covered your face with my kisses and filled your gaps with my tears.\r\n\r\nToday I will go walk the jazz funeral for you.\r\nI am still waiting for the end of my broken heart, my sacred New Orleans.\r\n\r\n\r\n<b>8-29-07</b>\r\n\r\nMy Love,\r\n\r\nIt\'s never over, is it? Will my wounds ever sew themselves shut? Will we ever stop seeping and bleeding and crying? Will we ever be able to care for our elderly, play on the ground with our children, heal our sick and nurse our own souls? Will we ever be able to trust again? Will we ever be able to forgive? Will we ever feel safe again?\r\nWe crawl into beds and bottles and casinos and syringes and hospitals and we crawl home. Home. I hold onto that comfort until I damn near strangle the life from it.\r\n\r\nYour children are going mad, GrandMere. Your children are being raped. Your children are being murdered. Your children are forgetting. Your children are giving up and letting themselves die. We\'ve stopped talking. We\'re growing more and more angry. But your children are still fighting.\r\n\r\nI still stay up late into the night, I still hold your hand in the dark. I still plant in your soil and I drink more than I used to. Waves crash, structures collapse, buildings burn, friends are lost, and a city screams. There is still no escaping it. Still. Still. Still.\r\n\r\nI want to crawl into your mouth and make a place under your tongue.