The “Real” Santa

“He’s something generous in your heart.”
“Not in the North Pole?”
“Well, really, he’s a spirit. Dear, you see,”
“He doesn’t come and see us with his reindeer?
You mean it’s true what they all say to me?’
“That makes us want to give at Christmas,
And share with everyone that we hold dear.”
“But, Mom it’s hard to believe that he’s not real.”
“It’s a special feeling at this time of year.”
“Honey, you can help be Santa this year;
You’ve been so sweet and generous all year long.

And, as you’re helping me to fill the stockings,
Maybe in your heart there’ll be a song.”
“You’re sure you always have done this, Mom?”
We put candy and apples in stockings carefully
And, though we chuckle and whisper our conspiracy,
The loss of wonder weighs a bit on me.

Tucked in, no footsteps creep out to the stairway,
No waiting big, blue eyes that just can’t close.

But Mommy’s eyes don’t close so very quickly,
Although the hours are long since she arose.

One more look, brown hair spread on the pillow
And on a warm, pink cheek dark lashes lay.

One more present is placed beneath the stockings,
“With love from Mom and Dad on Christmas Day.”