Page 2 of The Words of Us

“After college, I moved to the city for a while. Manhattan. It was thrilling, overwhelming, and everything I’d hoped for and more. But life has a way of shifting on you, you know? What starts out as a dream sometimes twists into something else. I got a little lost in it, in the noise, in the pressure to always be ‘on.’ I kept running, trying to find the right place, the right people, but nothing really stuck. It was like I was chasing shadows.”

I stop for a breath, a small smile tugging at my lips as I think about where I’m heading next.

“And now... Now I’m heading to New Orleans. Not just for a fresh start but because I think it’s where I’m supposed to be. It feels right, like there’s something waiting for me there. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I’m ready for it. Ready to let the next chapter write itself one day at a time.”

I glance over at her, feeling lighter somehow, as if saying it out loud has made it more real. She nods slowly, her smile deepening as if she’s pleased with what I’ve shared.

“Well,” she says softly, “sounds like you’ve got quite a story ahead of you.”

“Let’s hope it is a good one.” I smile.

The airport intercom crackles. “Flight 322 to New Orleans is now available for boarding.”

1

EVIE

Istand in line at the small coffee shop just down the street from the bookstore, glancing at the chalkboard menu like I haven’t already memorized it. The rich smell of freshly ground beans and warm pastries fills the air, and for a moment, I let it wrap around me like an old blanket, familiar and comforting.

My hair, a deep chestnut brown, is tied up in a loose bun that’s already starting to come undone from the humid New Orleans air. Stray strands brush against my face, and I tuck them behind my ear absentmindedly. I’m dressed in my usual—an oversized sweater that drapes over my frame and a pair of worn-in jeans, comfortable and practical for long days spent shelving books and greeting customers. My skin, sun-kissed from years of walking the streets of this city, has a soft warmth to it, and the faintest lines around my eyes show more laughter than anything else.

“Evie?” the barista calls.

I step forward, wrapping my hands around the warm paper cup. The heat seeps into my fingers, and I take a deep breath, letting the scent of the coffee ground me in this moment.

I take a sip as I make my way to a small table by the window, my gaze drifting out toward the bustling street. The French Quarter is alive as always with musicians playing their hearts out on street corners, and the sound of a saxophone wails somewhere in the distance. It’s the rhythm of my city, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

This is my ritual: a coffee and a few minutes of stillness before heading into the bookstore. My grandmother used to say that life is made of these little moments, the quiet ones that get tucked between the bigger events. She knew what she was talking about—she’d lived a whole life within the pages of books, and I’ve spent my life trying to follow in her footsteps, to preserve the legacy she left me.

I glance down at the small stack of poetry books I brought with me, thumb through one of them, and smile. The day is just beginning, and I already feel at home here, in the heart of it all.

As I sit there, sipping my coffee and watching the world move outside the window, my thoughts inevitably drift to poetry. It's always been like this. Poetry finds its way into every quiet moment, every corner of my life. It’s more than just words on a page; it’s the language of my soul, the way I make sense of the world.

I remember the first time I fell in love with a poem. I must have been seven or eight, sitting in my grandmother’s bookstore with a dusty, old copy of Walt Whitman’sLeaves of Grassin my lap. I didn’t understand half of what I was reading at the time, but there was something in Whitman’s voice that stirred me and made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. “I am large, I contain multitudes,” he wrote, and even as a child, that idea fascinated me—the vastness of the self, the endless possibilities within us all.

From there, I devoured every poet I could find. Emily Dickinson, with her quiet power, once wrote, “I dwell inPossibility—A fairer House than Prose.” And that’s what poetry became for me—a place of endless possibility, a way to step outside the ordinary and into something deeper, more profound.

When I got older, I discovered Pablo Neruda. His words had a way of lighting fires in my heart, especially his love poems. “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,” he wrote, and I remember feeling seen, as if he’d articulated something I hadn’t yet been able to put into words. It captured the dark edges of love that was so true, and yet we seem so afraid to admit it to ourselves. Back then, loving a girl was just that: dark and secret, something that shouldn’t be shared. But he made me feel like that was okay. That it was okay for me to be gay.

And then there was Audre Lorde, whose fierce voice reminded me that poetry isn’t just a refuge—it’s a tool, a weapon, a way to fight back against the injustices of the world. “Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence,” she said, and I’ve carried that truth with me ever since. Poetry has saved me more times than I can count. It’s the thing that makes sense when nothing else does, the place where I can be most myself.

Now, I see my bookstore as a living poem, a place where words flow from shelf to shelf, where people come to find a piece of themselves in the pages of a book. Hosting weekly open mics has become my way of sharing that love with others, of creating space for voices to be heard, for stories to be told. There’s magic in watching people stand up, their heart pounding as they spill their truths, letting the words find their way home.

I smile to myself, running my fingers along the spine of a poetry book beside me, a new collection I’ve been waiting to dive into. Poetry is my lifeline, my compass. And no matter what happens, it’s always there waiting for me in the quiet moments.

Despite my deep love for poetry, I’ve never been able to write it. Believe me, I’ve tried. There were so many nights when I satat my desk, pen hovering over the page, waiting for the words to come. But they never did—not in the way I hoped. Every time I tried to write, it felt like I was chasing something that kept slipping through my fingers, just out of reach.

I’d start with a line, maybe two, but they never felt right. The rhythm was always off, the imagery forced. It was like my heart knew what it wanted to say, but my hand couldn’t translate it. I’d crumple up page after page, feeling frustrated, like I was failing at something I was supposed to be good at. After all, I’d spent my life surrounded by books, devouring the words of the greats. Shouldn’t I be able to string together something worth reading?

But eventually, I had to accept that writing wasn’t my gift. Not like it was for the poets I admired. My talent wasn’t in creating the words; it was in loving them, in understanding them, in helping others find the words that mattered to them. My grandmother used to tell me that not everyone is meant to write poetry; some of us are meant to carry it in our hearts, to be the keepers of it, the ones who make space for it in the world.

And so that’s what I’ve become. A keeper of poetry. A collector of voices. I host those open mics, I fill the shelves of my bookstore with collections of verse, I listen to others pour out their hearts in a way I never could. And I’m okay with that now. It took me a long time, but I’ve realized that you don’t have to write poetry to live it or love it.

So, while I may never pen the next great verse, I’ve found my place within the world of poetry. It’s in the pages of the books I love, in the voices I amplify, in the quiet spaces I create for others to share their gifts. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s more than enough.

As I leave the coffee shop, cup still warm in my hand, I step out onto the cobblestone streets of New Orleans, a city that seems to breathe with its own pulse. The morning sun filters through the canopies of live oaks draped in Spanish moss,casting dappled shadows along the sidewalks. The air is thick with humidity, but it’s familiar, like an old friend I’ve grown used to. No longer uncomfortable, just part of the charm.

Walking through the French Quarter feels like stepping back in time, as if the history of the place rises up from the ground beneath my feet. The scent of beignets drifts on the breeze, mixing with the faint jazz notes that always seem to be playing somewhere in the background. Street performers and fortune tellers are already setting up their spots in Jackson Square, their bright clothing and tarot cards adding to the vibrant tapestry of the city. It’s all part of the rhythm of New Orleans, a rhythm I’ve come to know well.

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