I knew one day Ms. New Orleans would leave me and take her love along with her. The love I had for her is indescribable as I write this.
I see her in a distance, but my eyes are beginning to lose sight of her. I knew this day would stumble upon me, still I ask the question “my love, why are u leaving me?” Her soothing voice with a slight French creole accent would butter my heart enough to melt on a humid summer’s day in New Orleans. The pot on her stove is the scent of Cajun creole seasoning steaming from the gumbo. Her kiss is sweet as a beignet fried and dipped in sticky sugar only bought in the French Quarters. I hold her hand as if she is leaving my life forever without ever returning. Somehow, I lose her grip slower and slower as she gradually begins to stagger towards the sunset by the Mississippi river. Crickets, mosquitoes and other insects begin to swarm my vision as to impair my eyesight from her. I run faster, trying to get a more vivid picture of her but she is drifting away as a seagull drifts over the deep blue sea. She is getting away so I run faster and faster, finally getting a touch of her hand once again. The reality is setting in, I see now she doesn’t want to remain longer, she wants to go and it is time for me to let her walk her path to righteousness.
The truth of the matter is, she has cancer and her departure is long overdue. My family supported me by giving me a soft shoulder to cry on, but the pain is unbearable. I cry out in frustration, anger and tears “Why God, why did u have to take my angel at the delicate age of 28.” The birthday of her 28 years on this earth came as fast as her departure did. I pondered on what we should do for our engagement, or where to go on our honeymoon. Well, God had other plans and the obvious happened before my eyes, Ms. New Orleans prepared for her departure in a very timely manner. Nobody knew what would transpire or how to control the outcome. Family members are coming in and out of the room as she is whispering how much she loved everyone. Her pain is reflected on her face as her skin is pale similar to a crackled water bottle years old. Her hands are becoming colder reflecting her blood flow slowing down. I can see her heart is beating at a sudden silent pace and her eyes are not as glossy as they were usually.
I hear the jazz playing across the hall as if a brass band is marching at a “second line” downtown Canal Street. I say to myself, “It’s time Clifford, she’s suffered enough.” The dead are awakening as the clock is approaching its hand on the number 12. It happens, her hand falls flat away from mine and the room is cold but silent. The nurse and doctors cover her with the snowy white sheet as the priest says his final prayer, “let her leave in peace, In the name of the Father, The son and The Holy Spirit.” As every family member say their farewell, I am left next to her bedside as a dog left in the middle of the street by its owner. I kiss her forehead and tell her to wait for me at the pearly gates, but she doesn’t respond. I find myself drifting as I pace myself down Bourbon Street for one last talk with her. The day has finally arrived; Ms. New Orleans is no longer with me.