A Christmas Poem (2022)

Contrary to Clement Moore, t’was not sugarplums dancing in my head

the night before Christmas, for images of dancing sugarplum fairies,

vis-à-vis the Nutcracker, was not a pleasant sight, giant mice, sword

fights, and a broken nutcracker soldier come to life. No, t’was Gram’s

gingerbread cookies carried me off to bed that Christmas Eve, soft and rich,

one for each hand, climbing the stairs to bed, a bribe, anything to get me

to go to bed, to go to sleep, lest Santa not come, a child’s fear and threat.

But a confession, I feigned sleep, too much sugar for an eager and anxious,

impatient, child of 7 at bedtime, Christmas Eve, fearing St. Nick passing us by

or discovering myself on the naughty list, my brother’s warning, he

had seen the list. I just knew I’d find a lump of coal nestled in the toe

of my stocking, a public acknowledgement to everyone, what comes

of sneaking cookies before dinner, or hiding sisters’ dolls, or worse, a lie

told to mothers, claiming an illness to stay home from school, a bold lie I told,

this the cause of my name on the naughty list, highlighted, double-starred,

this lump of coal my public shame. Through tears and sobs, I would watch

the others open their presents and me without any, not a single wrapped box

or bag bearing my name under the tree, no socks, no underwear, no ugly

sweater, nothing, no electric train set, underlined, at the top of my Christmas list.

Secretly, though, I did try to stay awake, get away with something, just

long enough to hear reindeer hooves on the roof and the jingle of sleigh bells,

hear the struggles of Santa coming down our little chimney, catching

a glimpse of him, all dressed in red, padding off to the bathroom, too old

to wet my bed in the excitement of reindeer pawing on our roof, sleigh bells;

Santa would understand, wouldn’t he? Or seeing me, repack his bag

and leave, leaving us without Christmas, the cardinal holiday rule broken,

the milk and cookies and sugar for reindeer left on the table, untouched.

They’d know who to blame, who it was that didn’t go to sleep, not inviting me

to Christmas next year, if ever again, sending me away for Christmases to come.

But sleep came, eventually, tears and visions of tutu’d gingerbread men dancing

in my head and two crumbling in my clenched hands, uneaten,

a mumbled apology, and a trail of dried tears running down my cheeks.

 

Morning arrived, early, the other children waking me, the stockings

heaping where they had been carefully, lovingly hung, even mine,

not hanging flat, no large lump of coal to weigh it down, but full, overflowing,

candy canes and gum drops, socks and toys and treats. Santa had come, again,

and I had missed him, all dressed in red, the chimney, the reindeer, not even

a trip to the bathroom, and no wet bed; I was on the nice list after all. My pleading

and promises had worked, some guilt and tears added to help with my sincerity.

Santa had yet again snuck in, no wet spot of snow on the floor, the carpet

dry by the fireplace, no hoof prints on the roofs, and under the tree

all the evidence I needed to keep believing in Santa Claus, in old Saint Nick,

believing still in the magic of a Christmas Eve, the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, just me, eager and

anxious and 7 years old and wanting to see him for myself, just to be sure.

Even now, this year, much, much older, I still believe, still watching,

eager and anxious, impatient, still listening for sleigh bells and

reindeer hooves, visions of gingerbread cookies dancing, off

to sleep lest Santa not come and finding myself on the naughty list.