My friend Lynn, a counselor and yoga instructor, recently retreated with her family from the traffic and hustle of Houston for five days to check on her house, reconnect with friends, and open her studio for a series of free yoga classes. Lynn, who lives with her husband and three-year-old daughter in my neighborhood of old Algiers, had, like many of my neighbors, suffered only minor wind damage to her property and was returning with enthusiasm, leaving all that she detests in Houston (its bigness, its conservativism, and its bravado), for the charm and intimacy of her former home. I half expected not to see her or her family again in Texas. Despite the official warning against bringing children to the city at this juncture in its fragile reawakening, Lynn remained defiantly optimistic about the community's resilience. And she wasn't alone. Many people seemed to be going home to salvage their lives, not just those who lived in the relatively spared West Bank. Many were facing their demons squarely: navigating streets still littered with debris, confronting putrid refrigerators, and tearing out walls invaded by mold. These were people who longed for the world from which they had evacuated; a sensuous, colorful world that, admittedly, does not exist anywhere else in this country. They were battling the destruction with spirit and will. And my resolve to stay away at least until Christmas, to create a safe and stable environment for my son, was beginning to weaken. Why, I wondered to myself, if so many other stalwart souls were returning now, was I avoiding the city, sheltering my psyche in the affluent haven afforded me by my Texan neighbors?

In her first days back, Lynn called me twice. "I'm home, looking out my window at the park across the street. There must be some 30 kids out there," she announced gaily. "And it's a beautiful day; the sun is shining, it's cool and there are new leaves on the trees. It's kind of like spring." "Wow. That's great," I replied, trying not to sound envious. "Yes," she confirmed. "It is. Lots of people are here and it really feels like home." Lynn rattled off a list of neighbors and mutual friends she had seen since arriving on the scene. "It must be a relief to see familiar faces," I offer in return. "Yes...and I just thought you should know about it." The next morning Lynn called me again. "I'm calling to let you know how wonderful it is to be back!" she sings through the phone. "I'm so happy for you," I reply, trying to sound happy. "I haven't been over to the East Bank yet, but we're thinking about venturing over there today," she adds. "Really?" I ask, suddenly alert. "You're going to take Sophie across the river? Is that wise?" Sophie is Lynn's daughter. I cannot help but wonder if the specter of the rest of the city in its current state (of which I know only what I've been told) might not upset her. In truth, I am thinking about Dylan and my reasons for keeping him away. "I think she'll be fine," Lynn responds confidently. "We've prepared her for it. And she wants to go." "Well, good luck," I say, in earnest, "and give me a call after you see it. I'm eager to hear how it goes." Lynn does not call again.

When she returns, she is, like my husband Chris had been, upon his return, exhausted and visibly shaken. "The East Bank is so bleak and ugly," she tells me. "And there's all this dust in the air from the trash and debris. We all got splitting headaches while we were driving around." "I'm so sorry…" I answer, feeling saddened. Part of me, I realize, does want for the city, as it was, to be revived. Part of me wants to hear that it is, in fact, okay to go home. "Are a lot of businesses open? Like Whole Foods? Is Whole Foods open?" I ask, with a mixture of hope and anxiety. One my minor pleasures in life had been shopping with Dylan twice a week at Whole Foods, the only really decent grocery store in New Orleans. "No. Winn-Dixie and Save-A-Center are the only stores that are open. There aren't enough people to work. The service industry is gone and has no incentive to return," Lynn answers. "And Ray Nagin is talking about opening a string of casinos…I really don't know if this is going to work for us after all." I am silent, surprised, and dismayed at Lynn's transformation, which paradoxically confirms my rationale for staying away.

On my way home, I stop at the Whole Foods in our neighborhood for old time's sake and for some species of psychological comfort. As I stand in the check out line, waiting to pay for my salad and mineral water, I notice that the friendly bag boy who takes my basket is the same bag boy who used to take my basket in the Whole Foods back at home. The same bag boy I had seen twice a week, every week, for the last three or four years. We remember each other with a simultaneous gasp. "You're from New Orleans!" I yell. "Yes!" he nods. "Are you going back?" I ask. "No," he replies, shaking his head vigorously. "What's there to go back to? Even if I did go back, where would I live?" I stare at him, suddenly at a loss for words.