Wednesday, December 15, 2010


Twas the week before Christmas and all I could do

was wonder if all of my mail orders went through.

Wrapped tight in a warehouse or stuck on a shelf

Were gifts I was giving in spite of myself…


Come on Santa, load your truck and get me my stuff!


As a child I imagined elves with fast, nimble fingers and hot breath colored by magic and cinnamon as they concocted bows for wrapped gifts. But did they really make all the toys? How does an elf with all the simple spells in his tool belt manage the finely painted face on a doll? How does a hammer craft a stuffed animal. Things were too much for my little head to grasp, yet not enough to convince me without a question.


I guess that's when Santa began to fade. Although replaced by profound mystery, a feeling that I loved and held like an egg shell, I was listening more closely, watching carefully, and wondering how. How did he know what to bring? How did he know where to go? How did he get in the house? How did he carry so much stuff?

Impossible is not a real word until suspicions weigh down that bubble. Then we have the most annoying, Oh, I Get It years.


But once again, I don't get it. Every year we assume Santa's role and try to make too much, carry too much, do too much, and right about now some fundamental screw falls out. Did I need that thingy? Is it essential?


This year is for my friends. It's for the men and women who grieve as a husband, sister, daughter, son, father, or brother die. This year is for friends struggling, coming up empty, but loving their children and looking ahead with a brief hope that replaces momentarily the looming dread.


Screw you misery. Santa and I have better things to think about.


It's a perfect 12 am. Halfway from noon and back, I leave one day for the next. Be hopeful, little elves.


Santa, give me the magic and patience and persistence to teach Lily to come when I call. I really need that invisible tether to her when a deer pops up from the brush, dragging her zinging body through the woods like an unravelling thread.

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