NOLA SUMMER RAIN by guest writer Sarah Dickerson

She comes to you like a siren in the night. Sweetly, softly, lingering on a breeze in the

stillness of her notorious summer heat. To some, she’s an old dame. To others, she’s a

vicious queen. I’m often asked why I love her so, when her flaws seemingly outnumber

her charms.

But right now, it’s not her flaws that I care about. None of us are flawless. Right now, my

eyes are closed as the high of sex still lingers in the air. We doze lightly. The sight of the

ink in my skin catches in my eyes as they drift close. In the far distance, sounds of a

brewing storm take me back to a memory that engulfs my senses. A memory that

attempts, like so many before it, to explain the exquisite hold of the Crescent City.

The memory is vivid, crisp, clear. A scene that has played out a million times before and

is anything but ordinary. I stand on the front steps of my tattoo shop. I can feel the

presence of my artist standing beside me. She needed a smoke break before returning

to the task at hand. The two of us stand serenely, not saying a word.

My eyes are closed. I use my other senses to experience the world around me. I hear

the thunder rumble overhead. The scent of the rainstorm drifts past my nose as the

sound of the rain falls to the earth softening the sting of the afternoon sun.

The water here is as ancient as the earth itself. It brings a feeling as the sky opens on

us creatures below and the thunder rumbles high above. Somewhere, far off, I can hear

music, tumbling along the breeze. The delicate wind carries cool splashes of rain to our

bodies, subtly sinking through our clothes. In my mind’s eye, the irises bow and sway

along the street. The asphalt of Magazine shimmers beautifully from the shower. For a

sweet moment, the city is made anew. The smell of the rain lingers in the air. The old

oaks slowly drip down the pools of water that have found respite on their leaves. The

break is over and so is the rain.

New Orleans is smiling, glistening, singing her siren call. The people she calls her own

are vastly different, no two of us alike, but it’s in her waters that we are united. Her

waters fall from above, float through the humid air, and make up the very cells of our

beings.

Back in reality, my eyes open to see my lover beside me. A magnificent man that caught

my heart and took me to the country. Our bed is nearly sixty miles away from my

Crescent Queen, but my soul hears her call. The thunder doesn’t bring rain this time,

but I know where I can find those waters that I seek. So many over the centuries have

tried to describe her sweet grip, but it’s not something the mind can understand. Only

my soul can hear her song and respond back, “I hear you, my love. I’ll be home soon.”