In Granny’s secure-as-cooking house, I wait eagerly
for the toys, too young to fret about socks,
know Santa’s red suit and white beard will soon appear
as the adults around the tree nudge expectations.
My younger brother and I don't miss Uncle Martin’s absence,
glue our eyes to the presents that seem to wiggle under the tree,
impatient to toss their bows aside.
The buzz of small talk blasted by a hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho,“
my brother squeaks with joy like the mouse
in The Night Before Christmas.
My squeal turns to horror when I see Santa’s beard.
SCOTCH TAPE!
“It’s Uncle Martin. He taped on his beard.
He’s not Santa!”
My astonished father’s face turns to a scowl, turns to anger,
the piercing cries from my brother chasing Merry from the room.
Guilt and blame from the adults land on me—
Ruined Christmas for your little brother—
make me feel fiery coal and ashes of family addictions
before they were deposited like soot on our legacy.
Santa visited my children every year until
some kid at school said he wasn’t real
because a fat man couldn’t climb down the chimney.
We all laughed.
Originally published in Bindweed Magazine