2. Sasha

2

SASHA

F ive 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 a time 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 of Beloved by 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 not looking 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 fried food 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.

But it’s the details that make it mine. The bookshelves that line one wall are crammed full of poetry collections, some of them dog-eared and marked with notes from years of reading. I’ve hung framed pages of my favorite poems on the walls—Audre Lorde, Mary Oliver, Langston Hughes—each one a reminder of the voices that shaped me.

The tiny desk near the window is cluttered with notebooks, scraps of paper, pens, and candles that burn down too quickly because I’m always lighting them when I write. There’s a typewriter on the floor next to it, an old relic I found at a yard sale that I never actually use but keep around because it feels like it belongs here. A worn-out armchair sits in the corner, a perfect spot for reading, with a small table beside it holding a cup of half-finished coffee, a stack of half-read books, and a journal filled with scribbled lines that might one day become poems.

Fairy lights hang haphazardly along the ceiling, casting a soft glow that makes the whole space feel warm and lived-in. I’ve got art scattered everywhere—photographs of jazz musicians, abstract paintings I picked up from local artists, and collages I made myself out of torn-up magazines and postcards. There’s no real theme to it, just pieces that speak to me in some way. It’s cluttered, but it’s a creative kind of clutter, the kind that makes you feel like anything is possible.

This little apartment, with its creaky floors and chipped paint, is where I come alive. It’s where I write, where I reflect, where I let the ghosts of the past drift through without letting them settle. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. It’s a place where I can be myself—messy, complicated, always searching—and somehow, that feels just right.

Hung up by the door next to my tattered denim jacket are my work clothes—a black t-shirt with the logo of a local wing bar plastered across the front and a pair of worn-out jeans that have seen more spills than I care to remember. I only do a few shifts a week, just enough to cover rent and keep the fridge stocked with basics, but it’s far from glamorous. The wing bar’s not exactly a dream gig—sticky floors, loud crowds, and the smell of fried food that clings to you long after you’ve clocked out—but the tips are good. Really good.

It’s the kind of place where regulars come in like clockwork, and if you can smile, flirt a little, and keep their drinks full, you walk out with your pockets lined. The music is always cranked up too loud, and by the end of a shift, my feet are screaming and my voice is hoarse from shouting over the noise. But in a city like New Orleans where rent’s creeping up and the freelance poetry submissions don’t exactly pay the bills, it’s a job I’m grateful for. Even if it means I have to scrub the grease out of my hair every other night.

I don’t hate it, though. The place has a certain charm to it, the kind that only a dive bar with sticky tables and neon signs can offer. The regulars know my name, and some of the guys in the kitchen can actually make me laugh when the night slows down. It’s loud, messy, and exhausting, but it’s also another piece of this life I’ve built here, another way I stay grounded. I figure as long as I’ve got a place to write, a community to be a part of, and enough cash to keep the lights on, I’m doing alright.

I glance at the work clothes hanging there by the door and smile to myself. It’s not forever, but for now, it’s enough.

In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve made a handful of friends, but none like Glass. He’s not just a friend; he’s the kind of person who lights up a room without even trying, a force of creativity and personality that draws people to him like moths to a flame. We met at a poetry reading in the back of some dingy bar in the Bywater, and he stood out instantly—not just because of his sharp, angular style or the way he carried himself like a work of art, but because of the way he spoke. His words were like nothing I’d ever heard before—fluid, abstract, somehow both piercing and soft.

Even now, I don’t know his birth name, and I don’t ask. It’s part of his mystique. He’s Glass, and that’s all he needs to be. The way he uses his name in his poetry is incredible. He plays with the concepts of transparency, fragility, and reflection; sometimes he’s clear as glass, and other times, he’s sharp enough to cut. It’s like his entire identity is woven into these layers of meaning, this constant dance between how the world sees him and how he sees himself.

His poems are like puzzles, shards of language that catch the light in different ways depending on how you look at them. I remember one of his pieces vividly. It was about standing in front of a mirror and realizing that glass both reveals and conceals, that you can see through it but it also reflects back everything you’re hiding. It was beautiful and haunting, like most of what he writes.

We hit it off instantly, bonding over our love of words, and now we’re practically inseparable. Glass has a way of showing up at the most unexpected times, pulling me out of whatever funk I’m in with some wild story or a spontaneous idea for a new piece. He pushes me creatively and personally, in ways I didn’t even know I needed. We spend hours wandering the city, talking about art and life, sometimes stopping to watch a street performer or duck into a random gallery.

Glass is the kind of friend who makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger than yourself, like the world is one huge, unfolding piece of art. Even in this city full of characters, he’s someone who stands out, not just because of his talent but because of the way he sees the world. And somehow, he’s always made space for me in that world, even when I wasn’t sure I fit anywhere.

With him around, life in New Orleans is never dull, and neither is the poetry.