Ash Wednesday, New Orleans, Head in Hands

Mardi Gras is over. The glitter, I'm told, is permanent.

I was born in New Orleans and I have survived thirty-four Mardi Gras, which means I know exactly what Ash Wednesday feels like and I go out anyway. Overnight the city scrubs itself with an army of street sweepers, and by morning the French Quarter looks almost innocent, apart from the beads hanging in every live oak like Spanish moss.

The first stop is non-negotiable: café au lait and beignets at Café Poudre by the French Market, three pillows of fried dough under a snowdrift of powdered sugar. Do not wear black. Do not breathe in while biting.

Then a slow walk along the Moonwalk, the riverfront promenade, watching the Mississippi slide by, brown and patient, carrying away nobody's sins. At noon I went into St. Louis Cathedral for ashes, because I am a good Catholic girl one day a year, and the priest smudged my forehead and looked at the glitter on my cheek with infinite understanding.

Lunch was the real cure: a roast beef po'boy dripping with debris gravy at Po-Boy Pénitence on Decatur. Then an oyster. Then another. By afternoon I was on the Algiers ferry, crossing the river for no reason and back again, wind in my hair and the city spread out as if it had never done anything wrong.

Lived February 18, 2026.