Our friends’ daughter in a closed coffin—

I rerun their Christmas Eve party— Pamela sitting on the floor in red dress and red shoes, her red smile fed by sweetness.

Dark eyes and white teeth flash greetings to incoming guests as she reads a gift-storybook to her three-year-old Holly.

Crowding her parents’ buffet table— homemade lasagna, oysters on the half-shell, glazed ham, jumbo shrimp— amid oriental rugs, bronze sculptures, champagne glasses clink.

Friends are warmed by the thermal weave of sister, Mom, Dad, husband-John filling our plates and glasses.

* * *

Christmas Day, en route from another party, a driver, mad at John’s middle finger response to taunts shoots through Pamela’s window.

Radiance of a lit Christmas tree shorted. Holly sits in a growing pool of red. John screams, Help me, He shot my princess. Someone help me. He shot my princess.