Orphan/Guest

So we stayed one night in New Orleans at a renovated orphan asylum on Magazine St in the Garden District, St. Vincent's Guesthouse. It was a huge walled establishment with an open courtyard encircled by open verandas. It was in a bit of disrepair I would say, but it had charm. Very high ceilings in the rooms, a large bannistered staircase, and a quaint kitchen serving breakfast to order. It was off the beaten path, but I was glad to get away from clean, shiny, touristy accomodations. Bourban St gaudiness no longer appeals. It was only a short walk to St Charles to catch the streetcar. Cafe Dumond for beignets, of course. Then a leisurely stroll back along Royal, checking out the galleries and shops.

This trip was bittersweet and I spent much of it being sad. I have taken many trips down there over the years, always accompanying my mom to her birthplace. Her sisters' faces are now my only living link to her smile and gestures. Funny that time and distance never erased those ingrained facial expressions sisters share. Looking at my aunts is almost like looking at my mom again.

I've come to learn that grieving a sudden, unexpected death means dealing with sudden, unexpected emotions. How else can you explain it when a crawfish makes you cry?