three years after katrina (part I)

Late May 2007, I left New Orleans and moved to Oxford, MS. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I don't regret it, as many good things came about as well as a few lessons learned. But, overall, it was a dark and lonely seven months, especially toward the end. Often full of thought, heavy and cumbersome; the recent-past and whatever's-next meeting on my doorstep. I had no choice but to carry them in.

Then, 2008 - BAM! - another move. Mom's sudden passing into a U-Haul truck. All packed up and on the road. Cats in the back, and cursing at Dad. Leaving Mississippi behind, along with a few regrets: never did get to Memphis, but for the airport; never did get to that juke joint just up the road.

And now, Long Island. I don't like it here. Never did. I grew up here but always considered myself "from" here - as in, "on my way somewhere else." When I left twenty years ago, I chose a college several states away and I swore I'd never return.

I've eaten those words twice. I returned in 1994 for grad school (a very good decision) and again earlier this year (another right choice, given the circumstances).

Three years after Katrina. This is a thoughtful time. Full of markers. Last Saturday, I attended my 20th High School Reunion. Today is my 38th birthday.

The reunion was fun. I went with my bestest, dearest, oldest friend. We met 27 years ago (or is it 28?). At this point, we are like blood. I am Auntie Adrienne to her two daughters (ages, 2 and 4) and I would readily lay on the tracks for them. Or for her.

Our lives are - and always have been - vastly different, but our minds ride along parallel rails. And we have similar hearts.

As I walked to the hotel hosting the reunion, my knees knocked. Who will be in there?

Our graduating class was over 1600 people. During high school, we knew but a fraction of each other, since we were tracked and placed among our scholastic peers. Add in those we met in gym, art, or typing (hello Tony!), and it's still a piddling number.

Then I wondered what percentage of the class would attend? A tenth?

(Neither Michelle nor I attended our ten year reunion. We had both recently moved to new cities - Chicago for M; Philly for me - and we couldn't make the turnaround back.)

Worst case scenario: M and I sit and snack and talk, looking cool and confident as we make our way back and forth to the buffet.

Three years after Katrina. Three birthdays later. Today, the 22nd of August, is my 38th birthday, and my first one without a mother. No card. No call. No big show this year.

I aim to celebrate, yes, but very low key. I've gotten my shifts covered at work and plan to head north to Connecticut (home of that lily-livered scoundrel, Joe Lieberman). I'll be spending time with "A", my psychic twin - we've been leap-frogging each other in personal tragedies for the last few years. We started with Katrina, holed up in the same church-turned-house:

We spent our 2004 Ivan Hurrication there as well. It was all about Jim's Kountry Pies that year (apple, pecan, and coconut cream). Plus meals for a dozen and general revelry. We all went home a few days later, fattened and energized.

For Katrina, it was a bunker. A command center. Wifi and laptops. Cell phones and cable TV. One of our comrades was Smiley Pool, a photojournalist from Dallas. Starting Tuesday the 30th, he spent his days flying over the city and came back to us at night and shared his shots. I've never seen anything so horrifying. It was all so intimate. That was my home.

A few months after the storm, my husband and I separated. Then, "A" and her husband separated. I divorced. She divorced. I moved to Mississippi. She moved to Connecticut. My mother died. I moved to NY. And now, her mother is gravely ill. We are both only children. We are both reeling.

She tried to turn me off coming, but I insisted. I need her company. And I believe I'll be good for her.

Last year, for my birthday, I threw a party. But no one came. I was too new in town, not enough of a draw for a Mississippi Sunday. But I had a fella at the time, who made the birthday a prime one. He helped me to cook and set up and ran his fingers though my hair as I lay in his lap mid-afternoon with balloons on the road and no guests in the house. Late in the day, a coworker came by, her boyfriend in tow. We sat out back, ate and played games. I remember it being fun.

For my 36th, I dined at August. Flanked by good girlfriends ("A" was one). Champagne, fois gras, and entrees in go-bags. Dessert was had at the table. We thanked the guys in the kitchen. They applauded.

35:2005 was a house party. A brunch. And well-attended. We served cupcakes: double-dipped chocolate chocolate cupcakes filled with peanut butter cream. The day before, I bought a brand new motorcycle.

A week later, the world changed.

This is, Happy Birthday to Me, what I looked like three years ago: