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Juxtaposed


I am lying beneath a cottony comforter on my godfather’s back porch.  It’s as light as the air—which is to say not at all.  But the thickness of both is deliciously enveloping, in that you’re-home-now sorta way. 

It’s November 25, 1am on Thanksgiving eve, and the humidity belies New Orleans’ North American identity.  No passport needed, I’m in the tropics. 

The New Orleans homecoming is always one of joyous chaos.  I can feel the energy somewhere over Lake Ponchartrain, rising above a horizon of dark water, followed by the lights of Metairie, Airline Blvd and the River Bend of the Crescent City.  Touched down, it’s soulful embraces and free-flowing, non-filtered love.  All around, don’t stop, can’t stop, oh-my-gah!-you’re-home-now love.  And I didn’t even grow up here.  Ahhh, yes.

But. Lying here, mind brimming, can’t find the soft space of sleep between breath and thought. 

My grandfather, a giant of a man, is not well.  He is lingering between the living and that great unknown place that surely is better than here.  I have not seen him yet, but understand that today’s stroke has taken him to a new level. 

I like to imagine his soul rising like velvet.  He always seemed to have an ascendant air about him.  And, whether he knew we were all gathering in NOLA for Thanksgiving or not, his timing is as good as ever.

I am in a state of juxtaposition.  I am pseudo-home, tapped into the mainline of my spirit, surrounded by art and banana trees, marinating in love and the magic realism of my godfather’s back porch.   But what will this place be without GrandSam?  The invincible good doctor, with whom I have disagreed as much as I have adored and idolized.  Our family has drawn strength from his anchorage.  Now we must find the joy and thanks of this holiday as we face a great explorer's final journey.  

Tomorrow, I will sing to him like I did for Happy.  For her, it was joyful, joyful we adore thee…  For GrandSam, it can only be…the way you wear your hat…they can’t take that away from me…

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