Dear Santa, St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Père Noel,
and
the myriad of names you’re called, dressed in red
or
green or blue, a white beard on your chin and a pack
on
your back, a sleigh reindeer-pulled, or a staff to guide
your
Christmas walk, leaving behind presents under the tree
and
filling our stockings, hung with care on the mantel
or the bedpost, while we sleep and
dream of the morrow,
of Christmas Day, I’m writing you now
as I used to, long ago
in childhood, a practice I abandoned
as I aged, though never,
not ever, losing my belief in you, a
child’s fantasy not easily
forgotten, safely hidden in the façade of adulthood, remembering.
And, as then, I’ve tried to be good
this year, failed some,
my heart in the right place, mostly,
but it’s been
a rough year, this year, much to upset
me, get me down,
make me mad, and I’ve lashed out at
times, very unlike me
to do that, even said some things in
anger and fear, sulked and pouted,
but you know that, you know if I’ve
been bad or good, or perhaps
you’re still trying to decide on which
list I belong, not too bad, yet
not good enough, but then … so as I’ve
promised every year in the darkness
of my bed, I promise to try harder, or
maybe there’s a better year ahead,
less to upset me, get me down, a new
year to believe in the goodness
of mankind, in peace on earth again,
quicker to forgive, to love
patiently, less fearful and angry,
more trusting and trustworthy,
forgiving first myself, loving first
myself and my neighbors as myself,
a force for good, more compassionate,
more helpful, more human.
If you could look past my behaviors of
this year, my heart in the right
place and a year where even the best
of us have struggled and a year
of change ahead because we’ve
struggled, because we’ve survived,
perhaps you could consider my
Christmas list and maybe not load
my stocking with much deserved coal,
just one thing, something small,
if you could. I would be forever
grateful. So first,
as has been on my list since I was six,
that farm set
with the barn and some cows, and a
tractor, some hay bales,
back when I thought this my ideal
career, country-born that I was,
and though I long ago abandoned that
dream, I’d still like the farm,
something to play with in my
retirement, a reminder of childhood’s simplicity,
the dreams I had that brought me to
where I am now, here, writing to you;
socks even, for the snow and cold we
get here in this northern clime,
to keep my aging toes warm in the
winter chores outside, bundled up,
you who would know the need, the kind
of socks you might wear
on Christmas Eve; and coloring books
and crayons, pens and pencils
and paper; a new light to help me find
my way in the darkness of night
when I can’t sleep, and a coffee mug
to replace the one I dropped last week
and broke, functional things to keep
me functioning, useful things; of course,
I could ask for World Peace and an end
to wars and hunger and sickness --
always on my list, too, just below the
farm set I haven’t gotten yet --
but I know that can’t be wrapped with
a shiny bow or carried in your sack
around the globe and placed under my
tree, something even Father Christmas
can’t bring us, the elves can’t make
in their cheery factory, nor the reindeer deliver,
for we must create it ourselves, humbling
ourselves, each of us, seeking it
in the why and the wherefore of this
holiday season, the birth of the Christ-child,
the shining star of Bethlehem guiding
us, and perhaps someday … well, perhaps,
like a little farm with a barn and
cows, a tractor and bales of hay, something to hope for,
waking up some Christmas morning to
open this new gift, this gift of the manger,
angel announced, the gift of the Most
High, exalted, the gift of Peace.
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