I forget just how stunning this place can be. Sunset. 106 F / 41 C. A full moon, gorgeous in and of itself, hangs to the left. A muted orange orb of the fading sun hangs to the right. I'm on the roof of our villa to witness this Sahel spectacle. Clouds and moisture permeate the atmosphere. The river is near by. An ancient river that has seen all manner of men and civilizations. Waves of white egrets fly towards the river bank trees to roost. They are passed, mid-air, by bats the size of hawks, headed into the night air to feed. The egrets settle in trees along the city streets near the river. The trees become large cotton candy structures seemingly dripping from their weight, only to erupt in a cacophony of wings with the dawn. A large hibou comes out of nowhere, floating like a bloated airship. She's hunting for errant night life to feed on. Funny, most of the tribes in this area view the owl as a bad omen. I've always liked owls. One of my favorite birds of prey, Go figure.
Dueling muadhins for the maghrib prayer provide the soundtrack. You can find clarity in these moments. My advice, for what it's worth, when these moments arrive in your life, no matter when, no matter where, pay attention.
Changing of the guard at sunset. All of this reminded me of my grandmother. She left this planet December 1993. She would have greatly loved hearing about all these places. I wish I could have shared them with her. I wrote this upon her departure.
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Farewell
Alice
12/93
Crescent City light
Crescent City music
Music
Light
Music
Light
Dancing to the music of
light that lit your ancient yet timeless soul.
Hands.
A woman's hands.
Hands that tapped out an
Armstrong blues or danced on the air like angels struttin to Honeysuckle Rose.
An asthmatic boy grasped
for breath in the
Autmun cool of a desert
wind.
Hands reached out, eyes
dancing to the music of light—
Hands that could lead
Daud's Army of Healers.
Camphor pervaded the room,
healing with love.
You held me, rubbed my
chest with magic.
I dreamed of the Pont Neuf
at susnet,
Monet's garden in a clear
winter light,
Mangrove swamps, Indians on
Rampart street,
Chinaberry trees in
Senegal.
Same old seven and six, Danny
boy.
I watched you—in awe of
your magic, enthralled with your secrets.
You tamed a lion of a man
with a gumbo spoon.
Turned his rage into
ballads,
ballads blowing in a desert
wind,
scented with thyme and red
peppers,
that made a young boy see—
See the darkness and the
light of an asphalted desert through a Crescent City filter.
Grandma - How do I survive?
First you make a roux,
Danny, you said,
as you peeled fresh shrimp,
knocked that errant crawfish back in the pot and sipped a glass of red wine.
Elegance defined—dancing to
the music of light.
Age became you.
I brought you my babies,
one by one, knowing that you would somehow work your magic on them and they
would be safe—they would survive.
Grandma - Did you see what
they did to those people?
Just white folks, Danny
boy.
You know they got good and
bad in all people.
Simple wisdom—profound
advice.
It's always the little
things in life that speak so loudly to our souls.
You cherished each
microsecond of life,
not in greed, but in
wonderment.
Wonderment - the gift you
gave to all of us.
Wonder children - never
lose sight of the sheer wonderment of life.
Remember me, you said.
Cross Congo Square.
As I lifted your aged frail
body into your deathbed,
We told jokes to each
other.
You laughed - eyes dancing
to the music of light,
Blew me a kiss for the last
time and said,
I love you Danny boy. Come back and see us again. I love you.
Alice—
You will be there in my
every sunrise, my every sunset, in each drop of dew, in every baby's smile.
And when that clear crisp
wind blows through the asphalted desert,
it will carry the
slightest, sweetest whisper—
Alice
Alice
Alice
Au revoir Alice.
C'est tout dire.
