Cajun Country is the sunset sliding across the horizon leaving a dusty haze. Electricity visibly shaking through power lines over a sugar cane field. A yellow patch of grass where Louisiana Brad’s camper is then isn’t.
Cajun Country is May’s home. The girl I met in New Orleans. Strawberry blonde. A smile for rooms. Her mom, Mandy. The grandbabies. The on again off again with Brad.
Cajun Country is May’s five-year old niece, Janie, barreling through the screen door, hair in an uneven bob because she cut her long hair off and hid it in a pillowcase. Hopping on my lap and acting sweet before stealing my glasses and running away.
Cajun Country is May stepping outside, haloed by the porchlight, swatting moths. Revealing an Abita hidden behind her back. Believing every moment is a tiny gift.
Cajun Country is the Scott trifecta. Boudin balls at Billy’s. Cracklin’s at The Best Stop. Boudin links at Don’s. No exceptions. Humidity that won’t quit and storms you hear coming. Crawfish crawling across the lawn. Everything flooding.
Cajun Country is Mandy and Brad getting into the liquor. The hour before the fighting. Mandy retreating to the front porch. Brad smoking by his camper.
Cajun Country is Bloody Mary mornings. Smell of biscuits and fried eggs. The kids jumping on the bed to wake us. Waiting for May to open her eyes from playing possum. Knowing I could have died every time.
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work is forthcoming in Rejection Letters.