Tonight, the midnight wind offers a nostalgic rush of something I’m unsure ever existed.
I’m transported back the late 1800’s, deep in the New Orleans south. Sweaty, I can smell the rain approaching. The rustling oak tress with Spanish moss sway in the gray skies. I’m assisting a powerful Mambo, chopping her fire wood Finding certain plants. Cooking her meals when she feels too drained.
Cause of my help, she’s made sure I’m protected from all the seen and unseen mysteries of the world.
As thunder strikes in the past I can’t help but think of the ceremonies— Dancing, The drums echo Our feet shake the wooden planks. The drums echo And we are dancing— dancing ‘till our legs throb dancing ‘till our lungs explode. We scream ‘till our ears bleed— ‘till our head hurts. Anxiously we await possession.