An essay originally published in the Summer 2006 issue of The Kenyon Review, reposted here in recognition of the 19th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

On my first trip back, I found New Orleans unspeakably lonely.  The devastation wrought by the levee breaks went on and on,  block after block in Lakeview (where I grew up), Mid-City (where  my mother lived), the Lower Ninth Ward, and St. Bernard Parish—areas once shimmering with funky life, now lifeless and forlorn. Everywhere dump trucks trolled—FEMA paid by the load. Men with masks directed traffic, sometimes in Hazmat gear. I passed huge  dumping areas piling ever higher, flooded cars, blocks and blocks boarded  up. I faced one surprise detour after another. Refrigerators taped shut  against their stench littered the sidewalks. Many trees and all the grass  were dead—drowned. Everywhere I looked for the high-water line— sometimes inches, sometimes feet, sometimes over my head. Gray dust covered everything. It was like being in an old sepia photograph, but with blue sky.