[This is a continuation of the author's series on
Magic: such a hard thing to explain, and yet, when it's there, it's so clearly there. I'm not just talking about rabbits disappearing into hats, of course, but the sort of magic that keeps us devoted to our sad city. Some magic can be understood logically, such as the dazzling musician who awes us on the piano: it's magic borne of hours and hours of practice. The magic of having so many selfless people come from distant places just to help us rebuild: solid evidence that humans are essentially good and kind.
The best magic, though, has no explanation. When lovers meet by chance, or when opportunity knocks at just the right moment. A friend just told me a story about a coworker who was stuck in OPP during Katrina. When he finally got out, he had $7 in his pocket and didn't know what to do. He went in to Harrah's and won $600 - a start at a new life.
Myself, I'll never forget the day, not long after I moved here, that I was sobbing in the shower, feeling low, low. So low that I finally asked a God that I didn't believe in for a sign. Before I could change out of my towel, I began to hear music. As I got dressed, the music got louder - drums thumping, trumpet blasting. I got to my front window in time to see the second line make its way down my little side street. It wasn't a huge parade by any means - only about twenty folks decked out, umbrellas twirling, leaping and dancing in the afternoon sun. But it was big enough to make me believe that Someone had been listening to me. And even though I came to understand that New Orleans second-lines are as commonplace as crooked politicians, that street music still means magic to me.
