[Reading Time: 2 – 3 minutes]
Santa is coming! Santa is coming! Those are the cries heard throughout the house.
Everybody rushes to the windows. The kids, six in all and ranging in age from 6 to 12 years, run into the room to catch a glimpse of Old Saint Nick. My mom points and asks if I am excited. I turn from the window and run into the other room. Santa is here and I am not sure I am ready. I am the baby of the group, ya know. And I have unresolved feelings about Santa. I love the presents, but he scares the bejeezus out of me!
One of the aunts would dress up as Santa every year. The kids would take turns sitting on “Santa’s” lap, telling him what good boys and girls we had been. I would get bubble bath in what looked to be a champagne bottle. Pink, of course. Then Santa would leave and Nanny and PopPop would uncover all of the presents; they hid them under the covers on their bed. I was always in awe.
It is hard to believe that was more than 30 years ago. I believed in Santa Claus until I was a teenager. I know, many people would not admit to being so naive. But I saw him all those many years ago. And I am thankful I was able to hold onto my childhood so long because of those Christmases.
Now it is just an empty room, in an empty house. Nanny and PopPop have passed on. All of us kids are grown; my kids are teenagers. I look out the window. Still hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa below before turning to leave.
This work was inspired by Writing Prompt Number 38 at A Thousand Words.
Image courtesy of Jayneblonde.