Will Santa Come This Year
Dawg
The wind was fierce along the frozen streets.
Snow gathered on the barren boughs.
My niece struggled to find the will to sleep,
asking all the Christmas Eve
when, where, whys, and hows.
I sat inside her doorway
where I could catch some light
from the spiral bulb out in the hall,
and told her made-up stories
of another time and place
where reindeer dwell
and Santa is on call.
I spun a tale so riveting
I almost forgot
about the stress we were going to feel this year.
Everyone is strapped,
and Christmas might not shine as bright, I fear.
In her tiny hand she clutched
a soft, plush candy cane —
a gift given out in her class.
Outside her window, colored lights and merry games
echoed and reflected off the glass.
My mind wanders down the stairs
where a tiny tree adorns the tabletop.
Most every cent is spent
without a dime to spare,
just to cover the expenses we’ve got.
I look around at the few dollar store gifts I got
just so she could say
there was something beneath that tree.
And the pain inside me
feels like it will never stop.
I speak of tinsel shining
and miracles and joy,
assure her Santa will be on his way,
but that he’ll only visit
the sleeping girls and boys.
And I stand up, ready to walk away.
A voice so quiet it’s barely heard,
her face buried in the pillow:
“It’s okay. Things are hard right now, I know,
and it’s alright.
Santa can come back some other Christmas day.”
My eyes were wet and burning,
a knot formed in my gut.
She continued:
“We all behaved our best, I know,
but there’s not enough Christmas for the world.”
A whispered goodnight.
The shutting of the door.
My footsteps heavy and broken on the stairs.
Unplugging the blinking lights —
I want no Christmas here anymore.
I want numbness. I want to never care.
As the night drifted into morning
and the sun broke through the sky,
the meager offering was left beneath the tree.
No candy canes, no hobby horse,
but not a single tear was cried.
She knew it was the best that it could be.
She pulled on her old jacket to play outside,
her home-knit hat pulled down around her ears,
when I heard the squeal of joy
that still makes me cry:
“Look! Santa didn’t forget us after all this year!”
A simple box left on the porch,
a donation sticker slapped on one torn side.
Some candy canes
and a tiny plastic hobby horse
made just the size for her dolls to ride.
Some ugly purple teddy bear —
the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen
when it brought a smile to that child’s face.
Two Barbies, a new stocking,
and some Christmas books,
all left in a box outside my place.
I never knew who left it.
Still, I bless them every day.
I never guessed someone else would even care.
But miracles do happen
in the most peculiar ways,
and Santa made it to our house that year.