A THANK YOU NOTE

Dear Santa Claus,

I learned long ago that you were really my parents. Dad built the doll beds and Mom dressed the dolls. Often my wishes were not granted because they had no money.

But I want to thank you anyhow for the feeling I always had on Christmas morning when I woke in the dark knowing that you had come. Thank you for the certainty that it was the light step of your reindeer on the roof that I’d heard. Thank you

for bringing me, sometimes, better things than I’d wanted even though I hadn’t been very good: the ballerina with jointed legs, the microscope in the wooden box. I still have them. And thank you as well for the disappointments. The cheap Betsy Wetsy knockoff. The pale blue mohair sweater comes to mind, too, though by then, I’d stopped believing. Life is complicated. Thank you for teaching me that.

O, Santa, I want you back again. I want the Christmas tree lighted when I get up on Christmas morning. I want an orange in my stocking. On the table by the rocking chair I want to find that empty plate and cup. I want to hear again the faint jangle of bells; I want a dust of snow on the living room floor.