Melancholic

I was interrupted from my reverie by the bartender as I stood there with a drink in front of me left untouched. With the patrons drunkenly dancing in the bright lights to the tunes of a rocking band behind me, I must have appeared to be out of sorts and I was.

“Is everything alright? You seem....melancholic.”

Melancholic.

I brushed her off with a wave of my hand, embarrassed by my transparency. “Nah, just thinking.” Grabbing my drink, I tipped her and walked off.

Maybe it was the booze. Or maybe it was Christmas season. Could be that that kind of music has put me in that frame of mind. I don’t know…but I do know.

It’s what lay out there beyond those doors into the darkness of my beloved New Orleans and what remained in my memory before then. Then. The days before Katrina.

Like Dorothy who opened the door to the glorious city of Munchkinland where everything was Technicolor, I can still see myself in my mind being silhouetted by the light pouring from outside in as I stepped into the hustling, bustling neighborhood of mine. People were just on the go to destinations unknown. Neighborhood cats languished on stoops, eyeing the birds pecking at breadcrumbs on the street left by the elderly lady two doors down. Eager dogs dragged their owners down the street while young mothers with their children in tow pointed out every little thing in description. Bikers flashed by, tilting their heads in acknowledgement and neighbors waved hello as they climbed into their cars, hurrying off to work. But no matter the weather, rain or shine, hot or cold, it’s always something different when I opened the door to an ever-changing world and yet it was always the same.

Beautiful.

Now it’s all gone – blasted by the winds and water of August 29th. That front door that once belonged to my home remain closed and all that lay beyond that door to the outside world has ceased to exist. The million of colors have now been reduced to two – sepia and gray. There is nary a sight or sound of birds that chirped or scolded the cats below from the highest perches nor a smiling face that can be seen anywhere. Not a fresh-faced child can be found peering curiously into a garden up and down the block. Even the clocks and calendars don’t have numbers anymore – hours and days are suspended in timelessness and all that is left is the dust of the past.

New Orleans has become a soulless city and in my mind, I lead a really charmed life then and never knew about it…until now. Everyday is a reminder whether I drive by darkened homes marked with amber and gray striations, their doors and windows exposing the hollows from within or open the local paper to front page news that blare Discontentment, Hopelessness and Strife. Every morning, I wake up to another day, a different kind of day to a different door that is far from my home and this time around, it’s not the same. It’s a different world that does not belong to me, nor I to that world.

While Christmas is on its way, the holiday is still too far in the distance to even feel the spirit. If I had my door, just then, maybe I can open it to the magic of Christmas where I can see my people hurrying by my stoop, arms laden with gifts, disappearing into the light of gold as they stepped into their homes. If I had my door, I would feel the icy winds chap my face, while I string my stoop with lights, beckoning to my neighbors that Christmas is on its way to New Orleans. If I had my door, I would see the children’s faces illuminate the night in anticipation of Santa’s arrival, eagerly hoping and wishing for all they wanted and more. If only I just have my door, just one more time, I would be down on my knees to thank God for the gifts that I opened each and every day beyond that door. Just one more time....

Instead, all that fades into melancholic as I mourn the loss of my door.