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.