Sunday Morning Coming On November 17, 2013Posted by Mark Folse in cryptic envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
It’s a sad, gray Cowboy Junkies sort of Sunday in a tire-hiss trance on the chicory and La Llave speedball speedway for an early airport run. You couldn’t ask for more charming company than Annabel and Linea, lovely twenty-somethings homeward bound to the Netherlands and Sweden but everyone is subdued by the hypnotic nod of the songs, by the hour, by the crack up of last night’s well-intentioned going away party.
“Did you talk to [her]?” Linea asks on the way to pick up Annabel.
“Texts I’d been better off not replying to,” I say.
More silence, and more on the ride out from [her] house after picking up Annabel.
The mostly empty highway funnels into confusion at the terminal, and they are both leaving on far Concourse D. I slide like the Junkies steel guitar through the maze of taxis and pull up to the curb. I lift out Linea’s single bag, suggest she could give my daughter packing lessons, then hoist Annabel’s book-stuffed duffel carefully to the pavement.
“Three kisses,” Annabel says when I give her the traditional Dutch greeting and farewell. I forget my rehearsed bit of Dutch for goodbye and we both just smile. They begin to roll their bags away and are suddenly bubbly, two young women bound for home. I climb back into the car, distracted enough to miss my turn and find myself on Airline Highway. I take the next light back onto the airport road and toward the city. Gray skies above, wet gray concrete below but I find a tranquility in the quiet music and the unfolding roadway.
There is an early morning apology in my phone, but I decide to deal with that later. I have much to do today, and am thankful for a good reason not to have snooze-bared myself until noon. Just a whiff of the young women’s excitement is a perfect leaven for the gray day and the Junkies roll an easy groove to laundry and an annotated bibliography. There is just a bit of blue visible over the lake at the edge of the clouds.