Where mocking birds used to sing

I recently went back to New Orleans, and had to make a stop at St. Louis Cemetery (#1, if you're getting specific). I love cemeteries. I can spend hours in even a small, local one. I love the peace, the history, the unknown stories that are all around. But there's something extra special about St. Louis Cemetery. It may be the way New Orleans wears religion and death, voodoo and a crucifix, like they all belong together. People leave flowers at the graves (fake, with bright, almost unnatural colors; the real thing wouldn't last very long in the New Orleans heat), and they also leave bottles of Tabasco, tubes of lip gloss, beads (of course), a pair of glasses. They leave bits of their lives, bits of the everyday. They draw the "XXX" on the side and make their wishes or give their offerings.

St. Louis is an unusual cemetery, especially for those of us used to the the tree-lined cemeteries where people are actually buried in the ground, in individual graves, clearly marked with stones or markers. St. Louis has vaults, where the bodies are placed, unembalmed, sealed away for a year as they decompose. After a year, there's nothing left but bones, bones that will mix with the other members of the vault. Some vaults are families, some are groups: workers of a certain union, the poor Spanish. St. Louis has no trees, so I find myself walking around in the bright sunlight and heat, the sounds of traffic in the distance. And yet there is still that cemetery vibe all around. People talk in hushed tones, they pause at certain places, saying silent prayers.

Some of the vaults are well-maintained, some are crumbling into piles of bricks. There are simple ones and ones with gates and statues. There are the famous, much-visited sites and there are the ones off in the corner with a few simple flowers. There is a statue of a child angel, beautiful against the cloudy sky, labeled simply with the oddly-adult name "Larry" and "1947-1949." I walk by all of them, wondering who is there, who is still here, thinking about them. I wonder who the last person was that placed their hand on the vault and whispered that they missed them.

Toward the end of my visit, a black cat crossed my path. For a moment I wondered what sort of omen this might be: is this a good thing? But as he rubbed his head against my leg, I knew that all he needed was a scratch or two behind his ears, which I happily gave him. He wasn't good luck or a bad sign; he was just a kitty, at home among the voodoo priestesses and former mayors of New Orleans.