I am lucky enough to call New Orleans home. I have left for many years at a time, but the lush, sultry city released its siren song upon me and I returned. The rain cleansed me, the locust song made me nostalgic, expectant, and filled me with a sense of peace. When I walk the streets, I am surrounded by ghosts. With every footstep, I contemplate upon whose feet have trodden here before. I walk in the footsteps of natives and slaves of Bienville and Andrew Jackson. When I look at the river, I mourn for the many lost beneath its muddy whirling depths. I think of the many that have come and gone upon its winding waters, the generations that have lived on its shores. I see the faces of tourists unaware that they are surrounded by these ghosts as they peruse shops and eat rich, savory food or sample sweet sugary pralines and chewy candy. The city is alive. All of the buildings and cobblestone streets have developed breath. They have developed personalities, languid, arrogant, decrepid, tired, stately, the buildings live as the people do, they breathe as the people do, they watch as the generation pass before them. They carry their past with them.