Santa Claus was not part of my family’s Christmas. My parents decided they wanted the birth of Christ as the main focus of the holiday and not Jolly Old Saint Nick. Which was fine by me until I went to school.
When the festive season rolled around all the kids started talking about Santa Claus. Of course I knew who he was but still, I couldn’t believe that my classmates believed in such a thing. And I told one or two so. Yes, yes I did kill Santa for them I do hope they don’t hold any resentment towards six-year-old me. Because even I thought maybe, just maybe, my parents might be wrong and Santa might actually exist.
On Christmas morning I still got presents under the tree, lots of them. But they were signed “Love mum and dad.” Although I knew who had given me the gifts, there was an inkling of doubt. Maybe there really was a man who went around the world delivering presents via shooting down a chimney. We did have a chimney. Santa could use it to get to our tree. I had seen Santa at the mall before. He seemed ok with his big bushy white beard and comfy cozy looking red suit. Perhaps I should leave out some cookies and milk for this guy.
One Christmas eve I did wait up for Santa. I stayed awake so long my parents went to sleep. Then I quietly got my of bed and softly put one foot in front of the other and walked down the hardwood stairs to the landing. Here there was a small window that I could reach.
I can’t remember what I saw when I looked outside but it wasn’t Santa Claus.
I went back to bed and woke up Christmas morning. It was still a magical and majestic day despite the absence of Mr. Claus. Besides, he had too many kids to worry about anyway. I was one less.