The streets were corroded with at least 8 inches of fast-moving water. Wrought iron rusting and bending the pale blue Victorian dollhouses that lined street after street. Spanish moss clung for dear life above his eyes, the bluest eyes this city girl ever witnessed. I stumbled back to New York, the city still smoldering from 9/11, until my soul felt the fire on St. Marks’ Place. I bought a midnight Amtrak ticket out of Penn station that night back to savannah in hopes that the ghostly city would somehow take me in. And it did. And I eloped with the blue-eyed man, we suffered the usual and unusual tragedy of youth and wars and egos. He’s married to a southern belle now and it’s all one big country song. But I have our angel with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Like the smell of a New York train, I always go back to that spot where the cobblestone meets the iron and wait for it to take me in.