At some point, I should write about New Orleans: why I went there, what happened, and what it was like when the hurricane pushed me out of the city. So far, with a few exceptions and a smattering of allusions, I haven't. Not really, anyway. And it will have been five years this August.
In fact, I rarely talk about it. There's not much to say, in a way. Or maybe it's the words that would describe it that are lacking. The gap between words and that which they seek to represent, in this case, is too great.
I did talk about it with someone the other day, who reminded me of things that had happened that I had entirely forgotten, that, even when she reminded me of them, I don't really remember. My brain is Swiss cheese.
I still have dreams: floods, drowning, escape.
Sometimes, I think I'm waiting for the happy ending, which hasn't happened yet, but maybe what happened is in the way, and any ending is better than no ending at all.