I believed in Santa longer than most kids do -- longer, even, than my younger brother. When "Santa" gave us a Wii for Christmas, I was 13, and proclaimed to our entire family and all of my friends that "he must be real -- my parents hate video games."
We cling to the beliefs that give us hope. For me, hope was first found in the characters of fiction and fantasy. I devoured magical adventure books as a kid -- from Deltora Quest, to Harry Potter, to Inkheart. Stories that featured young heroines, such as Ella Enchanted or A Wrinkle in Time, had an even greater allure and relatability, and as I read them my mind brimmed with wanderlust. I was similarly drawn to Disney and Pixar characters, and of course, the legendary holiday figures who my parents created for me, like Santa, or the Tooth Fairy, or Fergus the Leprechaun. These characters existed in an in-between space -- on a bridge between our real world and a magical one. I found hope in the way they moved through their worlds; bravely, humbly, morally. In the face of conflict or hardship, they persevered, moving towards what was right no matter what.
In adulthood, we're nudged to let go of the fantastical in favor of the practical. E.B. White wrote: "To perceive Christmas in its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year." But my hopefulness remains; my excitement for future holidays grows the older I get. Someday, I'll play the part my parents did in constructing a magical world for my own children to believe in. I'll relive the fantastical stories I loved as a child when it's my turn to tell them.
To those of you who have celebrated any holiday this season -- I hope there was some magic in it, despite everything. This week, poems about holidays as grown-ups.
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The 26th of December
by Galway Kinnell
A Tuesday, day of Tiw,
god of war, dawns in darkness.
The short holiday day of talking by the fire,
floating on snowshoes among
ancient self-pollarded maples,
visiting, being visited, giving
a rain gauge, receiving red socks,
watching snow buntings nearly over
their heads in snow stab at spirtled bits
of sunflower seeds the chickadees
hold with their feet to a bough
and hack apart, scattering debris
like sloppy butchers, is over.
Irregular life begins. Telephone calls,
Google searches, evasive letters,
complicated arrangements, faxes,
second thoughts, consultations,
e-mails, solemnly given kisses.
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I Don't Want to be a Spice Store
by Christian Wiman
I don’t want to be a spice store.
I don’t want to carry handcrafted Marseille soap,
or tsampa and yak butter,
or nine thousand varieties of wine.
Half the shops here don’t open till noon
and even the bookstore’s brined in charm.
I want to be the one store that’s open all night
and has nothing but necessities.
Something to get a fire going
and something to put one out.
A place where things stay frozen
and a place where they are sweet.
I want to hold within myself the possibility
of plugging one’s ears and easing one’s eyes;
superglue for ruptures that are,
one would have thought, irreparable,
a whole bevy of non-toxic solutions
for everyday disasters. I want to wait
brightly lit and with the patience
I never had as a child
for my father to find me open
on Christmas morning in his last-ditch, lone-wolf drive
for gifts. “Light of the World” penlight,
bobblehead compass, fuzzy dice.
I want to hum just a little with my own emptiness
at 4 a.m. To have little bells above my door.
To have a door.
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Elijah vs. Santa
by Richard Michelson
Weight advantage: Santa. Sugar and milk
at every stop, the stout man shimmies
down one more chimney, sack of desire
chuting behind, while Elijah, skinny
and empty-handed, slips in invisible as
a once favored, since disgraced uncle,
through the propped open side door.
Inside, I’ve been awaiting a miracle
since 1962, my 9 year-old self slouching
on this slip-covered sofa, Manischewitz
stashed beneath the cushion. Where
are the fire-tinged horses, the chariots
to transport me? Where is the whirlwind
and brimstone? Instead, our dull-bladed
sleigh rusts in the storage bin beneath
the building’s soot-covered flight
of cellar stairs. Come back to me father,
during December’s perfect snowfall
and pull me once more up Schenck
and down Pitkin, where the line wraps
around Church Hall. Show me, again,
the snapshot of the skull-capped boy
on Santa’s lap. Let me laugh this time
and levitate like a magician’s assistant,
awed by my own weightlessness. Give me
the imagination to climb the fire escape
and look up toward the Godless Heavens
and to marvel at the ordinary sky.
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Taking Down the Tree
by Jane Kenyon
"Give me some light!" cries Hamlet's
uncle midway through the murder
of Gonzago. "Light! Light!" cry scattering
courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
it's dark at four, and even the moon
shines with only half a heart.
The ornaments go down into the box:
the silver spaniel, My Darling
on its collar, from Mother's childhood
in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
my brother and I fought over,
pulling limb from limb. Mother
drew it together again with thread
while I watched, feeling depraved
at the age of ten.
With something more than caution
I handle them, and the lights, with their
tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along
from house to house, their pasteboard
toy suitcase increasingly flimsy.
Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.
By suppertime all that remains is the scent
of balsam fir. If it's darkness
we're having, let it be extravagant.
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