Page 3 of The Words of Us

My bookstore sits nestled on a quieter street, a little tucked away from the constant hustle and bustle but close enough to draw in the steady stream of tourists who come to experience the soul of this city. The storefront is painted a deep, weathered green, with tall windows that showcase carefully arranged books and small trinkets from the city’s culture and history. Above the door hangs the wooden sign my grandmother carved years ago—Rousseau’s Books—marking the spot like a promise.

It’s a small shop, but it does well, thriving off the mix of regulars and tourists who pass through. The locals are my bread and butter, the ones who know me by name, who stop in for their favorite poetry collections or to chat about the latest literary event in town. They’re loyal, and over the years, we’ve built a community around this little place, bound by our love for books and words.

Then there are the tourists who flood the streets during festival season or just come to soak in the city’s mystique. They’re drawn to the shop for different reasons, their eyes lighting up at the sight of shelves lined with books on voodoo, the history of jazz, and, of course, New Orleans’ famous connection to witches. I stock them all—Anne Rice’sThe Vampire Chronicles always sell well, as do books on the city’s haunted past, tales of Marie Laveau, and the legacy of voodoo priestesses. There are shelves filled with guides to the cemeteries, stories of haunted mansions, and works that explore the rich Creole history that makes this place so unique. It’s not exactly my passion—witchcraft and vampires—but it pays the bills. And honestly, it’s fascinating in its own right, even if I’m more drawn to the quiet introspection of a poem than the dark allure of a ghost story.

Sometimes I stand behind the counter, watching the tourists browse the shelves with wide-eyed curiosity, their fascination with the macabre almost tangible. They ask for recommendations, and I steer them toward the local legends, the tales of magic that run through the veins of this city. I get it—New Orleans has that effect on people. There’s a certain enchantment here, a kind of mystery that hangs in the air like the heavy fog that rolls in from the Mississippi River at dawn. And while it’s not my first love, I’m grateful for it. Because it’s this interest in the city’s darker side that allows my shop to thrive, that keeps the lights on and the shelves stocked.

More importantly, it’s what allows me to host the open mic poetry nights, the real heart of the bookstore. Every Friday, we clear out the middle of the shop, move the tables and chairs into a makeshift audience space, and set up a small microphone by the front window. Poets from all over the city—some seasoned, some brand new—come to share their soul. The regulars, the ones who live for poetry like I do, know it’s more than just a reading. It’s a ritual. A space for people to pour out their hearts, to connect with others through words that might otherwise never be spoken. It’s magic of a different sort, quieter, more subtle, but no less powerful.

I think my grandmother would be proud. She always believed in the power of books to bring people together and createcommunity, and even though the store has changed over the years, I think I’m still honoring that. She used to say that books are like doorways, each one a portal into another world, another mind. And that’s what I hope my shop is—a place where people can come and find those doorways, whether they’re searching for the mysteries of the past or the secrets hidden in a line of verse.

As I approach the bookstore, the familiar sight of it brings a smile to my face. The sun hits the windows just right, casting a warm glow inside. I unlock the door, stepping into the quiet, welcoming space. The smell of old paper and leather bindings greets me, mingling with the faint scent of lavender from the candle I always keep burning in the corner.

It’s not just a business to me; it’s home. It’s where I belong, surrounded by words, stories, and the living, breathing history of this city.

2

SASHA

Five years. It feels strange to say it, even stranger to believe it. I think back to that girl in the airport, the one running on empty searching for something she couldn’t name. That Sasha barely resembles the one I am now. New Orleans has a way of doing that to you—changing you, making you feel like you’ve always belonged here, even if you showed up with nothing but a backpack and a lot of uncertainty.

I slide my fingers along the spines of the books in front of me, dusty and forgotten, tucked away on crooked shelves in this old thrift store. It’s become one of my favorite haunts. There’s something magical about these places, where treasures are hidden in the most unexpected corners, waiting to be discovered.

The store smells like old leather and the faint musk of time, mixed with the sweetness of patchouli incense burning by the front counter. The owner, a guy who calls himself DJ, lounges behind the register, playing some obscure jazz record that fills the space with soulful horns and steady rhythms. The kind of music that sinks into your bones and makes you feel like you’re in a film noir. The whole place has that vibe, like it exists in atime loop somewhere between past and present, suspended in a world all its own.

I’ve gotten to know DJ pretty well over the years. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s always with this slow, thoughtful cadence, like every word is carefully chosen. I think he gets me. We’re both the kind of people who found ourselves here by accident and stayed because we had nowhere else that felt this right.

I pull a dog-eared copy ofBelovedby Toni Morrison off the shelf and smile to myself. It’s one of those books I already own, but whenever I find it in a place like this, I feel the need to rescue it. Like someone left it behind without realizing the gift they were giving up. And maybe I can help it find a new home with someone who’ll appreciate its beauty.

New Orleans fits me like a glove now. I’ve woven myself into the fabric of this place, meeting people at poetry readings, listening and appreciating the local artists, and trying to find my voice in the hum of the city’s vibrant art scene. The spoken word community here is tight-knit, a mix of old-timers who’ve been around since before I knew what poetry was and newcomers who bring fresh energy with them. It’s one of the things I love most about this city—how the old and the new coexist, feeding off each other, creating something alive and ever-changing.

I was nervous when I first arrived and felt like an outsider, like I didn’t belong in a place with so much history and character. But that changed. Slowly, without me even realizing it, New Orleans started to feel like home. It’s in the rhythm of the streets, the way people greet you with a smile and a story, the way the air is thick with both humidity and magic. It’s the kind of place that lets you be whoever you want to be, as long as you’re true to yourself.

I tuck the book under my arm and continue browsing, my fingers trailing over old paperbacks and faded covers. I’m notlooking for anything specific, just letting the energy of the place guide me. That’s the beauty of these thrift stores. You never know what you’ll find, but somehow, it’s always exactly what you need.

It hits me sometimes, just how much has changed since that day in JFK when I made the decision to come here with no plan, no idea what I was getting myself into. I’m not running anymore. I’m rooted now in a way I never thought I could be. The city has accepted me, and I’ve accepted it in return. I’ve found my place among the ghosts and jazz musicians, the artists and poets who call this place home.

And as I stand here in this dusty thrift store filled with relics of the past, I feel a quiet sense of contentment. I’ve made it. Maybe not in the way I imagined, but in a way that feels right.

The past still haunts me, though. I’ve come a long way from that lost girl in the airport, but some things have a way of lingering, like shadows that never fully fade. They creep up on me in the quiet moments when I’m alone with my thoughts or when I’m flipping through old books in a place like this, where time feels blurred and memories stir just beneath the surface.

Sometimes I’ll be standing on a street corner, listening to the distant echo of a saxophone or performing a piece at an open mic, and suddenly, there it is—something from before. A flash of a moment I’d rather forget, an echo of the pain I worked so hard to leave behind. It doesn’t cripple me like it used to, but it’s always there, a quiet reminder of where I’ve been. The heartbreak, the mistakes, the people I hurt along the way.

I try not to let it pull me under. I’ve learned to live with it, to acknowledge the past without letting it define me. But every now and then, I catch myself wondering if I’ve really escaped it at all or if I’m just better at burying it now. There are days when its weight presses on my chest, heavy and uninvited, and I have to remind myself that I’m not that person anymore.

But still, there are times when I feel it—when the city’s energy quiets and it’s just me and the ghosts of who I used to be.

I didn’t just leave with a backpack. I left without a number, a name, an address. No ties, no way for anyone to reach me. I was dead to my past, as distant and untraceable as the ghosts that haunt this city. It wasn’t just an escape; it was a burial. I had to disappear completely to find a way to survive.

At first, it felt liberating, like shedding a skin that had grown too tight. No one could find me; no one could drag me back into the mess I’d made. I could be anyone I wanted, free from the wreckage I’d left behind. But there was a cost. Severing ties so cleanly, so completely, meant I didn’t just leave the pain behind—I left everything. Every last shred of who I was, every connection, every piece of my life before. It was all gone, wiped clean.

Just like the ghosts of New Orleans that roam the streets tethered to memories and places but not to people, I became untethered. I drifted through my new life, feeling the echoes of the past and never able to go back.

With my new books, I head back to my apartment in the Tremé, one of the oldest neighborhoods in New Orleans. It’s not fancy, not by a long shot. The streets here are cracked and uneven, the houses a little more worn down than in the touristy parts of town. There’s a mix of rusting metal fences, overgrown gardens, and brightly painted shutters that have seen better days. But it’s real, authentic in a way that makes you feel connected to something deeper. This neighborhood has soul. Jazz drifts through the air at all hours, blending with the scent of friedfood and the occasional bursts of laughter from a front porch gathering.

My building’s nothing special—peeling paint, a stairwell that creaks with every step, and windows that rattle when the wind picks up—but it’s home. The people here are good. There’s Miss Yvonne, who sits outside every afternoon, fanning herself with a church bulletin and offering me sweet tea and advice about life. The couple across the hall, Andre and Camille, are musicians—he plays the trumpet, she sings—and their apartment always hums with music that spills into the hallway. It’s the kind of place where people know each other’s names and we all look out for each other in our own quiet ways.

Inside, my place is small, barely big enough for the essentials. The walls are painted a deep, moody blue, which I chose deliberately. I wanted the space to feel like a cocoon, a place where the outside world could melt away and I could get lost in my thoughts. The furniture is mismatched, mostly secondhand pieces I’d picked up from thrift stores or the side of the road, but I’ve made it work. There’s a threadbare couch by the window piled with colorful throw pillows and a soft blanket I found at a flea market. My bed is tucked into a corner, draped with old quilts that smell faintly of lavender from the sachets I keep in the linen drawer.

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