A Drazen Christmas Tale

Originally published in December 2016.

‘Twas the night before Christmas at Sheila Drazen’s house,

Four generations had gathered, one girl getting soused.

Bing Crosby’s White Christmas battled a piano dirge in the air,

Because one cherished father would sadly not be there.

Monica complained, “It’s too flat, too slow.”

Gabby only shrugged. “I know, Mom. I know.”

When what to her wondering eyes should appear,

But a name and a number. A code? It wasn’t clear.

When she asked her mother, Monica evaded the matter.

So Gabby cornered her aunts just to have a little natter.

Innocent ears all snug in their beds,

Margie and Sheila said, “Why not? Go ahead.”

They told of a voice, a song, a girl;

A young man and his dreams of carving a new world;

Purple dress, yellow gloves, a deck of cards, and steady hands;

Of two people falling in love amidst lies and best-laid plans.

They spun such a tale of love and impolitic,

Of a man and a woman and a train and a trick.

A mystery so deep, two young people laid bare.

Could it be possible it ended on a prayer?

“What happened?” she cried with heavy heart and pleading eyes,

“After all of that love, one of them dies?”

Now here is where I must lay a finger aside my nose.

If I want you to read it, I must keep you on your toes.

But don’t you worry; there’s nothing to fear.

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