• This is a story of Christmas. Lightning had ravaged the sky from about four in the morning, when I had awoken, and had not ceased as of yet.

    I watched as little well-off children ran to stores, clutching the hands of their well-off mommas and papas. I feel so out of place here, sitting in a tattered leather trenchcoat I had found by me one time. I guess that somebody must have left it sitting here. I was grabbing onto a bottle of whiskey through a paper of bag. Well, I think it's whiskey. Anymore, it all tastes the same to me.

    Coming around the corner was a little red-haired girl with her red-haired mother. That woman looked at me with flaming hatred in her soul, but she was obviously less concerned for her daughter than for her shopping. She let her go, standing her by the revolving door as it spun her away to go do whatever she figured she had to do.

    The young one's skin was about as pale as snow. She made her way over to me tentatively, not all so sure as to whether or not she should have. She sat herself down by me, her black coat rubbing up on me as she did. When I moved, she imitated me as children tend to do. I smiled as best I could in the cold and set down my booze to wave at her. Her hand moved up to mine and she stared at it in wonder. I was shocked by the whole experience, that white-skinned little angel right up against this gritty old Negro.

    I've lived through so much and through so many years. I remember fighting the power. I was right up alongside Dr. King when he marched through these streets. I remember using that damned white-only drinking fountain in front of God and everyone, and I still have those scars to prove it.

    Thunder crashed down from the sky just then, then it happened again. The little clutched onto me, shivering in fright. I stroked her down her back, trying my damndest to comfort her.

    I remembered what my auntie told me one day, so I passed it on to that little waif of a girl. Don't be afraid, now, honey, I says don't be afraid. Thunder ain't no more than God's laughing, so don't take no fright in it, honey.

    She just smiled, her big brown eyes were blazing with tears. She said her name was Celia, but I couldn't tell her none the same, seeing as her momma walked up and snatched her away.

    The next time I saw that little girl, she wasn't so little anymore. I scarcely could tell who she as, were it not for the way she looked down at me. She'd cut off her long locks and had herself a whole little family. The man tried to rush them all past me, but Celia shrugged off his arm and kneeled down to hug me while that fellow dragged those kids through the same revolving door, whisking them away just like anybody else.

    That girl promised me she'd come back every Christmas, and she always did. Some years she brought some home-cooked food, another she brought a coat and a nice, gold pocketwatch. I looked at her closer than usual one year. She had that look from the beginning, before full integration. She was broken. Hr hair had lost its vibrancy and she had permanent rings stuck under her eyes. I thought back to that first day, with the lightning, and I cried for her. I was nearing eighty now, and I couldn't see why such a young, beautiful girl would do something like that to themself. I never asked, never even got the chance.

    It was my ninety-eighth Christmas, and I was not well in the least. Celia came, as usual, and I told her what I didn't want to have to tell her. She wasn't going to see me next year. I'd be gone by then. I handed her my will, but it just did what was right by her. Everything was hers, since everything came from her as it was.

    She clutched me close, holding me tightly under the rain and tears. That's how it was. Right before I died, I told that girl to listen for me, listen for my laugh every time there was a storm.