Santa is Not Real

At Christmastime mom hung three stockings from the stairs, representing my nuclear family of mom, dad, and me. Reindeer flew across the living room mirror in the form of soapy dabbed stencils that mom crafted every year. The aluminum tree would change from red, blue and back to yellow from the noisy psychedelic rotating light. There was plastic holly, mistletoe, and as many as seventy holiday cards that draped from the stairwell. After searching relentlessly for Santa Claus from my window one Christmas Eve, I returned to the living room only to find mom neatly placing presents under the tree. Seeing my astonishment, she said he had just dropped them off through the chimney. Since we had a gas furnace I knew that was impossible.

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