1. Evie

1

EVIE

I stand 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’s Leaves of Grass in 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 in Possibility—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 sat at 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.

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’s The 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 create community, 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.