Two weeks ago, I got in a car alone at 11:30 at night and drove 15 straight hours to the Gulf. Today, I saw proof that the thick, black oil has hit the marshes I was just in, touring the tiny water pathways in a boat built by the hands of the sweet, simple man steering it. He showed me the wreckage of his Grandparents’ house, never rebuilt after Katrina, the place where the school boat picked him up every morning to take him to shore with all the kids from his neighborhood, the best fishing spot – lined with dark craggy rocks – where a pod of dolphins playfully jumped out of the water in front of the boat. We saw pelicans, alligators, cranes, delicate lacey flowers, cypress knees and rows and rows of shrimp boats that should have been out working, docked like skeletons in the bright sun of the sourthern morning.
I took photos and videos, but I lost them. All of the grasses and rich green foliage there will be dead within a week.
My heart just split in two.