The once lively boulevard was silent, it was always so vigorous in summertime with the hubbub of tourists in awe of old teresa’s voodoo shop and her tacky tricks, or the usual jazz band in front of Martins attracting locals for a good sessions jam. Now the heat is just overwhelming, like your swimming in suffocating air and you can’t come up to breath, boiling your blood with every couple of strides. The building got closer, like it too, was walking towards you, the old familiar window that was once a masterpiece, with carved wooden frames and rectangular shutters, now rested smashed, destroyed and left on the concrete, like it meant nothing. Like this building meant nothing, like New Orleans meant nothing. But it did. the little room inside the building was small, but home like, with a little kitchen on the left and beautiful hand carved chairs placed in a circular pattern around a maple wood table, the carpet may have been over used and ragged but kept the family warm in the winter, but now the chairs were snapped the maple table turned over, the kitchen tiles left broken. It was gone, your life was gone. She was gone.