This was originally posted on ClownOnFire in December, but since it’s no longer available for viewing, I’ve decided to re-post it here– mostly just so I don’t lose it. My apologies if you’ve already read it!
_____________________________________
I can’t remember ever believing in Santa Claus.
I was very young when my great aunt, afflicted with the early stages of the mind-draining disease that is Alzheimer’s, explained to me that Santa Claus was a mere construct of a globally-expanding world.
It was Christmas Eve.
She was immediately apologetic after spilling the beans, but since I had never internalized the mythos–I wasn’t bothered. I told her I wouldn’t tell and I didn’t until many years after her passing.
As a sort of apology to me, we stayed up all night watching the dark sky once everyone had gone to bed. My little brother tried to join us, but she shooed him away, the gemstones on her plump hand sparkling in the moonlight as she waved him back.
“If you don’t go to sleep,” she scolded, “You’ll get coal from Santa.”
He scurried off, as fast as he could go, and she winked at me– giving me a wondrous glimpse of her saffron eyeshadow. Great Aunty Lali was the very definition of beauty, or so everyone said, and was always sparkling with color and life. I reached up to touch her eyelids, because she used to let me wipe the makeup from her face and put it on my own– but that night, she brushed my hand away.
“Och, no,” she said, “We’re going to ask the stars for Christmas magic, my dear, and for that– you must come to them honestly.”
She took wipes from her giant purse and washed the color from her perfectly pale skin. It was the first time I had ever seen her bare face. She smiled at me– and even with wrinkles and spots and her firm double chin– I still remember her in that moment as the most stunning woman I’d ever seen. She took hold of my hand and taught me how to ask the stars for a Christmas miracle. We whispered soft wishes together until I fell asleep.
* * *
The next morning, it snowed in South Texas. The tiny flurry of flakes fell gently and melted immediately onto the warm sidewalk. The whole neighborhood stood outside to watch what the news was calling a Christmas miracle.
My big brother lifted me high above his head, so I could collect the snow-dust which he told me must have been scattered from behind Santa’s sleigh.
I didn’t believe in Santa by then, but I was awed enough by star-generated miracles to stretch my arms out towards the sky. My palms caught the icy stardust as it sighed its way down.
To this day I don’t remember ever believing in Santa, but I’ve never regretted the loss of that global construct. After all, the famous red sleigh only comes ’round once a year, but I have a handful of Christmas magic–
and it stays with me all year long.