Winter's Irony by Jane H. Fitzgerald

Winter’s Irony

As far back as my mind can envision,

our large eclectic, extended family

convened at my grandparents’ Victorian

house for the festive Christmas holidays.

Its vast gloominess was scary and thrilling.

Eight bedrooms, two steep staircases, and

passageways like shadowy rabbit warrens,

were perfect for frenzied hide and seek.

It was a wonderful time of games, feasts,

songs, presents, lights, and togetherness.

All the grownups vehemently claimed

their familiar comfortable bedrooms.

The big kids grudgingly shared bunk

beds in a drafty room over the garage. 

Being the youngest of this riotous rabble,

my choices were a sleeping bag on the

hard floor or a lumpy ancient sofa.

I soon discovered the house’s best secret.

My grandparents’ room had a huge closet.

Behind their clothing, a deep warm recess

reached back to the eerie slanting eaves,

offering space for a clandestine chamber.

I furtively took a blanket, pillow, flashlight,

pens, and paper, to my special sanctuary.

No one knew I was writing grisly gothic tales.

We had already scattered to our faraway homes

when this euphoric eccentric existence ceased.

A steady savage snow storm enveloped every

house, tree, yard, and street; the world paused.

Sharp winter wind cut electricity and heat,

as arctic air descended over deadly darkness,

transforming my grandparents’ beloved

lifelong haven into an icy, inescapable coffin.