The shadow of the first shore

I remember D’Iberville by the sound of the river’s sigh. It is a quiet place, but not empty. The land hums with memory, low and steady, as if the earth itself still dreams of the first footprints that touched its soil. I came here following that hum, drawn by the weight of beginnings.

Long before the bridges crossed the Back Bay, before the casinos and bright lights to the south, this land belonged to the rhythm of water and wind. The Pascagoula and the Biloxi rivers braided themselves through the marshes, whispering secrets to the reeds. The Biloxi people lived within those whispers. Their canoes cut across the still surface of the bay, their fires glowed like stars along the shore, and I listened from beneath the mud. Their songs tasted of patience and belonging.

Then came the explorer, Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville, the man who gave this place his name. I felt the tremor of his arrival like a pulse through the ground. His ships came bearing the flag of France, heavy with promise and arrogance. They named and claimed, measured and mapped, believing the coast would bend to their will. I fed on that mixture of wonder and intrusion. The Wayfinder always tastes the clash of worlds, and here, it was rich.

Years passed, and the forest gave way to fields and homes. The echoes of empire faded, replaced by the hum of work and worship. Yet D’Iberville never forgot its dual nature. It stands between river and sea, between memory and progress. The people here carry a quiet resilience, one that has survived storms both natural and human. I felt it most when the winds of Katrina howled across the bay. The water rose and took what it wanted, but it could not take their will. When the storm was gone, I watched them rebuild again, steady and sure, their faith rooted deep.

Now, when I walk its streets unseen, I feel the pulse of the old and the new mingling together. The hum of traffic crosses the same earth where canoes once glided. The scent of salt, diesel, and pine fills the air. Beneath it all, the bay still whispers to the shore, and I still listen.

D’Iberville is not loud like its neighbor across the water. It is a quieter current, steady and enduring. I rest here when I grow weary of the noise of the world. I feed on the calm, the echoes of the first explorers, and the courage of those who still call this place home.

When the tide shifts, I can almost hear the old songs again, faint and clear, carried on the wind. They remind me that the beginning of one story is never the end of another.

I answer softly, as I always do: I remember.