A New Orleans Christmas Story
It snow on Christmas in New Orleans, 2004.
Jackelyn sat in her library reading A Christmas Carol by
Charles Dickens. She thought about how wonderful it would
be to be rescued by a ghost, or several ghosts for that matter.
To be so important that anyone would care, not just one ghost,
but several.
She sat alone as she did night after night. She took a long
drink of wine, and let the wine seep through her teeth and onto
her tongue. "Why should anyone care about me, an old
miserable thing. Beautiful on the outside, ugly on the inside."
She was hungry. She hated being hungry, and hated even
more when she had satisfied her hunger. Abruptly she closed
the book and placed it aside, on the table by the fire.
She longed for the memory of Christmas. The warm feel of
gift giving and receiving. Baking, stockings, loved ones. The
season made her so incredibly sad and miserable, and even
angry at times.
She swung a scarf around her neck, grabbed her coat and
headed out for her hunt. In the square she found several bums
cuddled together in the cold. Drunk on whatever liquor they
could salvage from rests of drinks left on trashcans, the bums
were peaceful.
It was Christmas eve. Jackelyn circled the bums, snoring.
"There'll be no sugar plums for you tonight," she whispered to
herself. She studied their faces, content and simple. "If only
my life could be like that again," she thought to herself.
Jackelyn was 134 years old. She'd lived in the French Quarter
for nearly 85 of those years, some of which were wonderful,
sinister and real. But now after so many years she had grown
tiered of her existence. She no longer understood what she
thought she knew so long ago. Day after day she read and
learned but still was no wiser, just more colorful.
As she loomed over the bums, watching them in their ignorant
silence, she talked to God.
"If you gave me a sign God, of what I should do, the right
thing, then I would do it. You put me here. One way or
another, for whatever your reason be, you put me here. You
put me here to kill your children, perhaps ween them out.
That's the only sense I can make of it. I've survived on those
who menace, those who cause havoc in society, and those
who can't help themselves, like these before me now. But I'm
tiered and sad. I don't want to go on like this. Give me a sign
and I will do what's right.
She lowered her head and a tear fell from her cheek. She
thought she felt something cold on her forehead, then again on
her nose. Jackelyn looked up into the sky and was speechless.
For the first time in decades she felt warmth in her heart. The
sky was filled with beautiful penny sized snowflakes. They
filled the square. They covered the bums and the benches and
the trees. Jackelyn found herself smiling, something she had
not enjoyed in so many years.
This was the sign she had so wholeheartedly asked for.
"Thank you God," she replied to the snow. Jackelyn leaped
over the gate into the garden near Andrew Jackson's statue.
She reveled in the snow. She laughed and played. She threw
snowballs at the statue and built a small lopsided snowman.
Jackelyn sat on a bench. She had her answer. She was
happy, satisfied and felt the spirit of Christmas. She nestled
into the bench, comfortable in the snow and there she fell into
a deep sleep. A sleep she knew she would not wake from.
She would wait for the sun to rise and take her life, so that so
many other's could live. She was no longer selfish. Her
purpose was answered with the snow.
If God had created her, then this Christmas he thanked her for
her service and torment, and let her rest.
It snowed in New Orleans for the first time in ten years. This
time it snowed on Christmas eve in answer to a prayer and
Jackelyn was there and peaceful.
Jackelyn sat in her library reading A Christmas Carol by
Charles Dickens. She thought about how wonderful it would
be to be rescued by a ghost, or several ghosts for that matter.
To be so important that anyone would care, not just one ghost,
but several.
She sat alone as she did night after night. She took a long
drink of wine, and let the wine seep through her teeth and onto
her tongue. "Why should anyone care about me, an old
miserable thing. Beautiful on the outside, ugly on the inside."
She was hungry. She hated being hungry, and hated even
more when she had satisfied her hunger. Abruptly she closed
the book and placed it aside, on the table by the fire.
She longed for the memory of Christmas. The warm feel of
gift giving and receiving. Baking, stockings, loved ones. The
season made her so incredibly sad and miserable, and even
angry at times.
She swung a scarf around her neck, grabbed her coat and
headed out for her hunt. In the square she found several bums
cuddled together in the cold. Drunk on whatever liquor they
could salvage from rests of drinks left on trashcans, the bums
were peaceful.
It was Christmas eve. Jackelyn circled the bums, snoring.
"There'll be no sugar plums for you tonight," she whispered to
herself. She studied their faces, content and simple. "If only
my life could be like that again," she thought to herself.
Jackelyn was 134 years old. She'd lived in the French Quarter
for nearly 85 of those years, some of which were wonderful,
sinister and real. But now after so many years she had grown
tiered of her existence. She no longer understood what she
thought she knew so long ago. Day after day she read and
learned but still was no wiser, just more colorful.
As she loomed over the bums, watching them in their ignorant
silence, she talked to God.
"If you gave me a sign God, of what I should do, the right
thing, then I would do it. You put me here. One way or
another, for whatever your reason be, you put me here. You
put me here to kill your children, perhaps ween them out.
That's the only sense I can make of it. I've survived on those
who menace, those who cause havoc in society, and those
who can't help themselves, like these before me now. But I'm
tiered and sad. I don't want to go on like this. Give me a sign
and I will do what's right.
She lowered her head and a tear fell from her cheek. She
thought she felt something cold on her forehead, then again on
her nose. Jackelyn looked up into the sky and was speechless.
For the first time in decades she felt warmth in her heart. The
sky was filled with beautiful penny sized snowflakes. They
filled the square. They covered the bums and the benches and
the trees. Jackelyn found herself smiling, something she had
not enjoyed in so many years.
This was the sign she had so wholeheartedly asked for.
"Thank you God," she replied to the snow. Jackelyn leaped
over the gate into the garden near Andrew Jackson's statue.
She reveled in the snow. She laughed and played. She threw
snowballs at the statue and built a small lopsided snowman.
Jackelyn sat on a bench. She had her answer. She was
happy, satisfied and felt the spirit of Christmas. She nestled
into the bench, comfortable in the snow and there she fell into
a deep sleep. A sleep she knew she would not wake from.
She would wait for the sun to rise and take her life, so that so
many other's could live. She was no longer selfish. Her
purpose was answered with the snow.
If God had created her, then this Christmas he thanked her for
her service and torment, and let her rest.
It snowed in New Orleans for the first time in ten years. This
time it snowed on Christmas eve in answer to a prayer and
Jackelyn was there and peaceful.