Even thousands of miles away, hints bombard the senses, every minute of every day.
The burst of fresh coffee’s aroma, and the knowledge that it won’t be perfect.
A wall of air so steamy, it’s worn like soggy paper.
Silent fog, swirling, devouring all in its path without remorse.
Snippets of jazz, riding on a veiled wind.
The fleeting whiff of a long forgotten candle.
Whispers of spirits hidden in the midnight rain.
In her sultry voice, New Orleans is always calling us home.
Most yearn for heartwrenching, final goodbyes and lament lost salvation. Given the choice of reconciliation or compassion, most choose the dream…the illusion…damn the consequences and the blessing of swift tragedy.
While the front door is for the thrill seekers, the exit ramp is a journey reserved for the strongest of a chosen few. Against all common sense, I’ve opted for that gruesome path, over and over again. Much more than a job, it’s a calling.
Someday, somewhere, the bells will ring with reward—as pure as summer rain, constant as eternal soul, smooth as blended notes and rich with big harmony.