someone left 3 Miller High Lifes on my front porch.
I’m assuming it’s a gift for my subletter — the whole neighborhood loves the guy — and not an obscure civic ritual.
The only time it’s pleasant to step outside the front door is once you’re beyond the sun’s reach. Last summer I had the benefit of surviving the gradual gulag, the deep drench of the sweaty summer, to get ready for this time of year. This year not so lucky.
But the bayou smells the way New Orleans should at its best: pungent, fecund, ripe and riotous. At the Night Out Against Crime gathering down the street, my cross-the-street neighbor said it was the light that drew her to New Orleans. I love the smell.
The light’s okay too.
