To the good seasoned seafood, to the variety of foods to touch your taste buds. It's not my home, but it feels like home.
To the dancing in the streets, to the musicians speaking notes in the middle of the streets. To the vibes that make you pause only to follow the notes indeed. It's not my home, but it feels like home.
To the local people greeting you with warm smiles and speaking of places that have good food, good drinks, and good sounds. It's not my home, but it feels like home.
To the streets that runs with beautiful architect and details of the culture that has affected centuries of history. It's not my home, but it feels like home.
To the many shops from one end to another end filled with creativity of the people that make you explore the areas from left to right, to right to left. It's not my home, but it feels like home.
To the sweets that make you want to take the place with you, to the drinks that make you dance yourself to sleep. It's not my home, but it feels like home
To the vibes of such a place that you literally can't enough of. To a place that creates never ending memories that have you craving the need to make even more memories. It's not my home, but it feels like home
About the Creator
Zontroir Alexander
g...I'm just looking to start doing something I've always had a passion for
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Back to The Beginning
Something in me prompted me to make a random trip to see if the pear tree still stood on the corner of Green Oak Street as I remember it. To be honest I had been reflecting on that pear tree well, more so the person who lived in the big old creepy house that stood next to it. Laughs. Never did I imagine the person living in that house would change the course of my entire life. To this day I can still smell the fresh aroma as I walk by, or maybe it was the love I had for pears, so I knew the scent well. This particular love is what led me to encountering the infamous Miss Lily Chenevert. It was my junior year of high school and my friends(who are actually my friends to this day) and I had the luxury of walking to school unless the weather permitted it. Anyways, we would always pass her house, but at the time we had no idea she or anyone actually lived there. Sidebar, my mother was the only person that actually knew Ms. Chenevert lived there, which would explain how she knew exactly where I lived. So, whenever we walked by the aroma of the pears would hit me and despite it being next to the old creepy house this pear tree was gorgeous, I mean like commercial gorgeous, you know the kind of gorgeous that you can only see in a Hallmark. I'm not even sure why I got the idea to take a few pears, but that day I just had to have them and no I wasn't even a fat kid, just had a love for pears. I couldn't even hear my friends warn me to run, well that wasn’t until I saw a lady running towards me with a shotgun. I’d also like to point out that Ms. Chenevert’s yard was huge from front to back. All I remember is one minute I was near the tree and the next minute I was in my room. I couldn't even tell you what happened in between those times. I suppose I was watching my life flash before me as I jumped her fence through her back yard and ran to my house. After all that I still somehow had the pears in my hands. I know you are all thinking, those pears surely weren’t worth all that? And my answer to you is yes, they absolutely were. From the freshness, the sweetness, and to the crispy taste of it all, was definitely worth it. Not to mention, the friendship that would develop over the course of years between me and this immovable woman. I would love to say that had I gotten away with stealing Ms. Chenevert's pears, but before I could enjoy one simple bite there was a knock, or should I say, a pound at the door. And whose voice do I hear? You guessed it, the one and only Ms. Chenevert. The moment I heard her voice my body froze, I couldn't jump out my window to escape. Laughs. My own body had betrayed me. I wasn’t sure who was going to kill me first my mother or Ms. Chenevert. After an hour of my mother fussing and definitely cursing in between they both agreed that I would do yard work for Ms. Chenevert for the next three weeks. I just knew that lady was going to blow me into the next room every time I went over. My paranoia had me jumping.I think my mother probably knew, how just the thought of possibly being murdered had me more shook than anything. Now I have to work in this lady’s yard that of course hasn't been tended to in years. I have markings on my hands from the blisters of my hard manual labor. After a while she would invite me inside and feed me. The first time I ever stepped inside her home, it felt so surreal. As I looked around I literally had to touch the walls to see if perhaps we were still in the same place and not some other dimension she zipped me to. I mean it was decorated in a modern style, yet she still had her old collectives throughout her house. What mainly stood out to me and would also stand out to two of my other friends was her phone, a record player, and my favorite, her typewriter. I also noticed the pictures she had taken over the years of her lifespan. From posing with Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Hal Johnson. "Lena was a lover of words, which is why she would hang out with us book worms. Although, listening to Langston read anything would make any woman listen." She said as she laughed. I knew exactly what Miss Lena Horne meant. The moment I touched the typewriter I felt an instant shock. "I see it chose you." She said. As I jumped from the small shock I felt. At the time I thought she was crazy, but all along she knew my exact love for words as well, as if she could sense something in me, indeed that woman had a way of knowing when or what would speak to you as we all learned throughout the years spending time with her. Now looking at the same place that struck my love for words so deep it embedded itself within my soul, I smile. I should feel sad, but I don't. Ms. Chenevert, a tall southern New Orleans lady, did exactly what she was supposed to do on this earth. And I wasn't the only one she connected with. In fact, all my friends were so intrigued by her they all connected with her in one way or another and would visit her everyday or every other day. That woman had stories nonstop and somehow new when we needed those stories. I will forever remember the woman in which I met her shotgun before I even met her technically if I think about it. Laughs. Her death brought out the whole neighborhood in fact her relatives didn't have a funeral, there was a parade and a band playing. It was a beautiful celebration ending with the lovely sounds of Lena Horne being played on the record player as we all danced the evening away in the streets. She ended up giving her record player and phone to two of my other friends years ago, but I suppose that's their stories to tell next time.
By Zontroir Alexander3 years ago in Fiction
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