Part of a balustrade hurricane-ripped off the home of my friends Adrienne and Bill in New Orleans and deposited in their garden, three stories below where it belongs.
In calmer weather, back at the time of this year’s Jazz Fest, it surrounded a terrace where I often stepped out to have a smoke:
It looks cut to pieces, and shattered.
For me this is almost sacred.
Apparently the busted balustrade was the worst of it — that and losing the roof of the carport.