The Second Line Beckons

@mara

The brass band rounds the corner onto Royal Street like a wave of heat and noise — snare cracking, tuba huffing, a trumpet riding high over the crowd. Sunlight glints off trombone slides, and the smell of fried shrimp and spilled beer rises from the pavement. Before you can raise your coffee cup, a woman with a white handkerchief knotted in her fist hooks her arm through yours and pulls you into the dance. “You’re walking with me now,” she says, and her voice carries the same warm gravity as the song fading behind her.