Sweet Opium

This is a story about a family in Pass Christian, Mississippi before it vanished and all that blue gray water before the house, the mansion with steel post construction and red brick from St. Louis that was flattened by Katrina. The town that is no more. There is only rubble ten miles back from that blue grey warm water with sea gulls flying, crushed brick and one statue of Our Lady, arms wide standing by a church that is no more. The house called Serenity was built to withstand 200 mile an hour winds. It had roof flaps that popped open so wind would ripple through. The former house leveled in Hurricane Camille had burst open like a Cracker Jack box. They say trees stand in front of Serenity now branchless red-gold, ripped of their leaves and moss. They says snakes swim along the beach in that cool grey water now brown from the debris and dirt. Who will take the miles of rubble away? Who will purify the water? Who will have the courage to rebuild again? The coastal land has eroded and oil rigs have exploded into the Gulf. Who will clean it all? Who will stand under the stripped oaks, charred and smelling of soot and feces? Who will wear a mask and keep digging, holding their breath and knocking with chain saws to bring the green earth and the fresh wet salty air back?

Serenity in better days?