When we got to my street, Caffin Avenue, things didn't look so bad. Caffin is a major thoroughfare, so it was clear, albeit muddy with the thick black sludge the toxic flood waters had deposited. The covered basketball court still stood and so did the houses on the block.

Then I noticed one house four doors down from me had collapsed. Another was turned at a 90-degree angle. The driver inadvertently drove the SUV past my house, although he had been there before. He had to back up.

And then I saw it: There was no house standing on my double lot. Stairs, pilings, some debris. The chain link perimeter fence was mangled. The 2003 Buick LeSabre Limited taxicab I own and operate was parked just like I'd left it — under what used to be the double carport. The 24 feet of roofed cinder block storage that my dad built along the back of our property had all but been obliterated.

"Where is my house?" I asked Arnold, the driver. He pointed across the street to a pile of rubble that lay past the median. I looked at it, incredulous. Then I noticed three dresses from my bedroom closet, including the white & black eyelet number I had just bought for Piano Night in April and only worn once. It was trashed. Then I saw some of my favorite handbags. My surveillance television lay smashed on top of the large, damp heap.

My home had washed away from its very foundation. There was very little that was salvageable under the lumber, damp gypsum, metal and mud. Besides, my home had been co-mingled with the other house that no longer was.

It was worse than I had imagined. I had fully expected my wooden, shotgun double home to be standing intact. Still, I'd had 44 days to prepare for this moment. And it was the not knowing that was killing us all inside. When I was able to see my home — or the remains thereof — I had closure. Psychologically, I could move on.

My city has been devastated and my neighborhood utterly decimated. Twelve weeks later, homeowners are still not allowed in. The remains of my home were bulldozed away two weeks ago. I received my first insurance check today — a $1,500 advance on my homeowner's policy.

Everything my dad and I ever worked for is now gone, from the mundane Social Security card and automobile title to the priceless original art and reams of family photos. There are rumors that my entire neighborhood of some 30,000 residents will be razed.

Many African-Americans believe the Industrial Canal levee which flooded the Lower Ninth Ward was dynamited, just as they believe it was 40 years ago during Hurricane Betsy.

All physical proof of my past has been wiped away. Despite the material losses, I am living. And I will live again. I continue to live prayerfully, defiantly, one day at a time. Some days are just better than others.