This was Stella’s first trip to New Orleans. She walked down the streets with the enthusiasm of a child. Everything was new and shiny. Even if it wasn’t. This was the biggest city she had ever visited. It was fantastic.
Watching all the boats, ships, and barges go by. Up and down the great Mississippi. Water vessels she had no names for being a girl from a land locked state. It was thrilling. Seagulls swooped down taking popcorn from her hand. The sure size of them put the little song birds she was used to to shame.
She had no reference for the variety of sights, sounds, and smells. It was a trip she may never get to make again. This experience would be seared into her memory.
Street performers were on every corner. There was a silver man. A white angel. Three clowns. If a corner didn’t have a statue, someone was playing music. This was marvelous.
The first day; on her way back to the hotel, a thin man staggering from side to side holding a white styrofoam cup approached her. He stared at her as only a wine-o can, with his head vibrating on his shoulders; asked using his best Creole draw, “how’d y’all like bein’ 17 feet un-dur woder ?” Raised his cup in a toast and staggered off. It struck her as odd for a moment, ‘y’all’. There was only one of her.
The next morning she said outside the hotel sipping coffee listening to people talk. Instantly, she was in love with the Creole accent.
Today’s adventure was a walk through as many cemeteries as she could. Marie Laveau’s grave site was one of particular interest. People had left all kinds of trinkets, money, bones, stuff to her that looked so random. But she knew the person that left it there, it meant something to them.
Just like in her own town, grief took on so many different forms. People left flowers, pictures, stuffed toys, cards, tokens of love for their deceased ones.
Walking down the sidewalk, a small group of musicians passed playing lively jazz. Her heart skipped a beat as did her feet. Bobbing her head to the lively tune. “What a city?” She smiled. Barely noticing the butter running down her hand from her delicious corn cob.
The music was still playing in her head; the sudden shock of almost bumping into someone else, stopped her. “I’m sorry.” She smiled. He wouldn’t let her pass. “May I help you?”
His accent was so thick she could barely understand him, “shadow follow you.”
She turned around several times. There was no sun on the sidewalk or street. The tall buildings blocked it. “I’m sorry.” She protested.
He used his hands making a big circle in the air. “Shadow.” He did it again, “ever-whur.”
“I’m not casting a shadow.” She smiled gently.
“Not you.” He clutched a charm that was on a chain around his neck. “No,” he hissed.
“I don’t practice astronomy nor do I believe in consulting familiar spirits.”
He pointed a finger at her, “believe. Shadow round you. Shadow.” He looked her over. This man was making her very nervous. ‘What shadow?’
Maybe he was on something? He started jumping up and down, shouting in a language that was foreign to Stella. A low growl escaped him, “you feel split?” He shook his head, “torn?” He stomped his feet on the pavement, “pulled?” With his fists up against each other, he strained his muscles to pull them apart.
As if struck by lightning, she understood. All of her life she felt like she was a stranger in a strange land. As if there was no place she belonged. The world outside and the world inside her being could never mesh.
“Shadow strong. Shadow,” he paused; looking sad. “Shadow,” she thought he was finished and stepped to walk past him. “Shadow part of you. More,” he corrected. “Greater, less-or.” He reached out to the side of her face. Pulling his hand back with a hiss. “You, shadow, need. One.” He smacked his hands together. She jumped at the assault.
She was more confused now than ever. For a brief moment she wondered; had she picked up something during her cemetery tour. But she didn’t believe in that either.
He acted as if he could read her mind; shook his head, “real. Not dead. Shadow.” He turned, running away from her. Holding his hand as if it was truly hurt, screaming, “shadow real! Shadow! Shadow!”
She looked around herself. There were no shadows. What had just happened here?
Poetry & More 