Hellf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tale

~ * ~Hellf on the Shelf
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-fareast-font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;}  </style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">He didn’t mess with Mom until the eleventh day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">From the beginning, Dad had been a reluctant accomplice, no more excited than she’d been to break down and buy the Christmas elf toy. But both of their kids had heard all about it in school and on TV, and they’d begged for their chance to impress one of Santa’s elves on a daily basis while it watched them from different locations throughout the house and brought treats and sometimes tricks. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">No, neither Mom nor Dad were thrilled at the prospect of making the Santa lie that much more elaborate and challenging to maintain. Instead of one night of trying not to get caught, it was twenty-four, and the kids’ questions over logistics were getting harder to answer: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Does he really report to Santa every night? How does he fly back and forth to the North Pole so fast? Why doesn’t he just call from his smartphone? Why did he fix the game console when Santa could just send the newer version? </i>Mom had privately named the toy “Hellf” for the inconvenience it added. But the boys were getting a big kick out of him so far. That made it all worth it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Until December 11. The day the alliance died, apparently…when her husband began undoing everything she’d set up the night before. When was he doing it? He was always already in bed whenever she moved Hellf to a new spot on the furniture and appliances. She never sensed her husband getting out of bed, and she was first up every morning to get breakfast ready. So when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> he doing it? And why? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">After the first week, she’d actually started having fun with it. Prided herself on her increasing cleverness. She no longer just moved Hellf around; she posed him in different, funny ways to look like he was reading the boys’ books or building their Legos. He’d appear to rebel-rouse the other toys, picking a lightsaber fight with Kylo Ren and drag racing against the stuffed panda. She wasn’t into merry mess-making, like dumping out flour so the elf could make “snow” angels, but she was happy to let him spell out silly messages with marshmallows, add sprinkles to the cocoa mix, or prepare the coffeemaker. Her favorite so far was probably when Hellf pooped out chocolate kisses. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">But on the eleventh day, the elf wasn’t having any more of her antics. When she woke in the morning, all her efforts had been cleared, and instead of reading on the toilet, Hellf struck a more respectable pose from the corner bookshelf in the living room. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Why’d you move it?” she whisper-yelled at her husband when he ambled into the hall, squinting his still-sleepy eyes and scratching his scalp.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Move what?” he asked between yawns.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Hellf. I had him all ready to go. Why didn’t you just use the other bathroom?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“I haven’t used <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> bathroom yet. What’re you talking about?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She huffed. “If you had another idea, fine, but that’s just boring.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“The whole thing is boring. Why couldn’t they just find the pickle and have it over with? They already have so much. They’ll get spoiled.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Handing over a DS game for finding the pickle five seconds after I’ve hung it on the tree is spoiling them. At least this is just for fun, not prizes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah. So fun. All it does is fix their eye on the big prize at the end. Which they’ll get no matter what.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Well…” She had no comeback. “It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> fun when you give some effort. The bookshelf? Really? Call that inspired? You’ve set us back to day one.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">He scrubbed his eyes during another yawn. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“If you’d stayed in bed all night,” she said, “maybe you’d feel more rested.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“I didn’t touch the effing elf, all right? Jeez, just put it back where it was. Like they’ll know the difference.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll</i> know,” she said with a mock glare before freeing him to his morning ritual. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">He went straight into the very bathroom, though, where she’d positioned Hellf before, and a stirring behind one of the kids’ bedroom doors preempted any backup plans. The elf would just have to stay on the shelf and be boring that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">When the boys found him right away and screwed their faces, she shrugged and promised them extra gooey, sugary toppings on their pancakes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">That night, she made up for the disappointment. She stayed up late building a gingerbread house that Hellf would take credit for. When the kids woke in the morning, they would spy him putting the finishing touches on its walkway with a peppermint paving stone. She was exhausted, but it looked adorable, and even Hellf appeared pleased with himself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">But by sunrise on the twelfth, Hellf was back on the shelf, the gingerbread house nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, she still hadn’t come across the picture book he’d been reading on the toilet two nights before either. But this one took the cake—rather literally, as she’d put so much time and energy into constructing the now missing confection.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“What. The. Hell,” she rasped at her husband once they had a moment alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Closing her eyes, she raised jazz hands that curled into claws as she sought to contain her irritation. “The house. Where’s the gingerbread house, and why’s he on the shelf again?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“You serious? Kids’ve gotta be messing with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She fisted her hands on her hips. But soon, her scowl curved into a smile, and they both chuckled as she wiped some crumbs and icing flakes off the table. Foiled—again—by a devious duo. A mother couldn’t help but be proud. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“That elf better be catching all this,” she said. “Naughty-list potential for sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Over breakfast, they sat the boys down and interrogated them, trying to get to the bottom of how they’d sabotaged Hellf and why. Their two sons just stared back wide-eyed in adamant protest. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“No, we didn’t!” one cried. “Santa’d be so mad!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“We can’t control him!” the other insisted. “He can go wherever he wants!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“He’s supposed to be at the North Pole all night,” the first one said, tears pooling in his eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The more Mom and Dad pressed on, the more they realized that if the boys were indeed telling the truth, these questions were only destroying the illusion of Hellf and Santa and all things Christmas Magic. And if anyone was lying—Dad included—Mom would expose one or all of those little shits if she had anything to do about it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She began by doing nothing. Hellf sat on his shelf collecting dust into the next night and remained there by morning. She thought his legs had been crossed at the knees before, not the ankles, but of course she could be mistaken and, if not, one of the boys—big or small—had obviously done it. She barely slept the next night, keeping all senses alert for any sign of tampering. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">On the morning of the fourteenth, Hellf still sat on the shelf, painted eyes as wide and mischievous as ever and his head a little cocked to the side.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now</i> it was getting boring. So, that evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, she turned the refrigerator door into a rock wall of gumdrops for Hellf to climb. The next day, he and the drops were gone, nothing left but the candy’s sticky residue on the textured fridge surface, which she begrudgingly scrubbed off before any of her tricksters awoke and took satisfaction in her annoyance. Passing through the living room, she spotted Hellf on the corner shelf, grinning with a deepened blush, if that was possible. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Extending her fingers into the peace sign, she pointed their two tips toward her eyes before stabbing just her index finger at Hellf.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m watching you, buddy</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">And she did. Staying up until the wee hours, she strung him up on a bead-garland zip-line stretching from the bookcase to the nearest window valance. Then she tucked her husband’s action camera between a couple books on the top shelf and left it to record for the next few hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She managed to slip into sleep straight away—and overslept. Disoriented and groggy the following morning, she shuffled into the living room, where Hellf sat on the shelf, no longer braving the harrowing heights from his paperclip harness. The camera was gone, a book inserted in its place. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Closing her eyes, she sighed. Those twerps had beaten her to the punch yet again. And probably erased all recorded evidence even if she did find the camera.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She gave up. Like her husband had said, their children would receive their Christmas bounty no matter how they behaved this month, and it wasn’t like they were being that bad. Just playing with her like she’d played with them. A little payback, maybe. Perhaps they’d figured out the truth about Santa and wanted to beat her at her own game. Or they weren’t ready to let go of the lie, wanting one more year of playful mystery if not magic. Her heart ached at the thought. She wasn’t about to spoil their fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">So, she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> give up. She kept coming up with sillier ways to present Hellf in the morning, and now she did offer prizes each time. He’d read a new storybook to the other toys or challenge the panda to another race in a more pimped-out ride, fresh off the store shelf. He’d play a new video game or sit with a bowl of popcorn on the sofa to watch a new DVD. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Every night, she gave her sons something new, and they never asked why the elf would bring gifts when Santa was supposedly still determining their naughty-or-niceness. They didn’t mention anything about it at all, in fact, apparently enjoying their private game with Hellf—or “Elfis Presley,” as they’d named him themselves. And so Mom had to satisfy herself that she’d never get credit for her cleverness, never any gratitude for her generosity, since she wasn’t supposed to be the one deserving it. She and Dad stopped asking the kids if they’d gotten anything or where they squirreled the new goods away to as they continued playing with their old stuff. Together, the whole family maintained that illusion of mystery and magic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">And every morning, Hellf returned to his shelf, his eyes seeming a little brighter and his smile a little wider. The boys seemed to smile wider and brighter each day, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The household’s unseen activities went unspoken until the twenty-fourth day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">This was it. Christmas Eve. One more day, and the elf’s duty was done.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">After sending the boys off to their sugar-plum dreams, Mom and Dad snuggled by the crackling fire in the family room, mugs of mulled cider in hand. They giggled over the handmade gifts their kids had given them, as well as the boys’ barely concealed disappointment when they’d opened the Parent Presents—the clothes and very non-electronic things they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i>versus the Santa Stash they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i>and would receive on Christmas morning before the Grandparent Gifts rolled in later. Giggling and sighing occasionally at the classic holiday film playing in the background, husband and wife spoke in low tones about the year they’d had, the life and kids they loved, and the game plan for tomorrow. With a few tender, cinnamon-spiced kisses, they bid each other goodnight, and Mom caught a few winks before rousing herself to play Santa. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Feeling her way around in the dark, taking great pains not to make much sound, she navigated back to the family room with two trash bags stuffed to the gills with Santa Stash. By the soft glow of multicolored fairy lights, she knelt and unloaded each gift, arranging them all neatly beneath the tree. Situating a couple of glittery wrapped boxes beside the nativity scene, she bumped an arm into the little wooden stable and sent the angel falling from its roof. That piece always hung loose from a nail, and she was too tired to mind it now. So she left the angel to lie beside one of the sheep on a cottony snowdrift and continued to sort shiny packages. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Within each big bag was a small grocery one containing stockings and their stuffers. Once she was down to only these, she stood and stepped to the fireplace, aided by white lights strung along the mantelpiece. She hung her family’s stockings with care and began to hum “Silver Bells” as she filled them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">A jingle bell sounded across the room. She started at the crisp clang, then froze, only sliding her eyes to the side to see a slight movement within the tree. Slowly turning her head to follow her gaze, she saw something small and dark swinging in front of a red light. She squinted, her breath held in her chest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The pickle. A tradition from her mom’s side. Whoever found the unusual ornament first won a prize. She’d loved it as a kid, and now her boys did, too. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Setting the stocking stuffers down, she stepped over to see which bell had rung and what might’ve shaken it in the first place. All that moved, though, was the green glass pickle. She stared at it more closely. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Having lost momentum, it now mostly trembled side to side. Such a funny thing. Odd in looks and ritual, yet every year, she brought the pickle out, shined it up, and deliberated the perfect hiding spot on the tree—just like her mom had done for her. Now, her little winners won video games. Then, she might’ve won a pair of gloves or novelty socks. Before that, her mom and aunts had only won the right to open the first present, not an extra one. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She smiled softly in a moment lost to memory and simple pleasures, then returned to the fireplace and her humming.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Seconds later, more tinkling sounded from the tree. This time melodic, with the high, twinkling tones of a music box. “Silent Night.” Coming from the nativity. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The stable did have a musical mechanism built into its side. But she’d never turned it on, much less wound it in the first place. Had she? Of course, even if she hadn’t, either her husband or one of the kids probably had, and it wouldn’t be the first time the little device had gotten stuck. So while its sudden sound was startling, it set a pretty mood and was nothing to worry about. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Far more troubling, at the moment, was the angel. Hanging from its nail on the stable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The music slowed to a stop.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She’d knocked the angel off the stable’s little roof, hadn’t she? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I left it like that…didn’t I</i>? Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t. She couldn’t really recall, having been more focused on the placement of the presents. She was always forgetting simple things when preoccupied with other tasks. She resumed stuffing the stockings.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">“Jesus!” she hissed when the music started again. She’d flinched enough this time to knock a half-filled stocking off its hook. It landed on the hearth with a muffled thud. “Oh, my God,” she exhaled once she’d caught her breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The music box plucked out its song with increasing speed before slowing down again. She glanced back at the angel and silently apologized for her exclamations—although, speaking of Jesus, there before the baby in the manger was Hellf the elf, kneeling as though in prayer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said nothing now, the Lord’s name in vain or otherwise. She couldn’t even breathe. She’d left the elf on the bookshelf in the other room, its mission accomplished. What was it doing in here? How did it get down there?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay</i>, she reasoned, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the kids stuffed him in the tree at some point tonight</i>. He must’ve stayed in place until gravity dislodged him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, that makes sense</i>. He’d probably slipped from a branch and got caught in another, disturbing an ornament with a bell and causing it to ring. And now he just fell the rest of the way and triggered the music box. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t know how he landed where he did, but…</i> It wasn’t impossible. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Keeping an eye on Hellf, she stooped to retrieve the fallen stocking, then straightened to rehang it. Wasting no further time, she slam-dunked the rest of the gifts into the stockings’ mouths, not caring whether she got them into the right ones. She’d sort it by light of day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Another tinkle from the tree. Then another. Then a cluster of jingle bells, though these less audible, difficult to locate. They practically surrounded her as she nervously darted her gaze all around the dim room, unable to see into the shadows that the tiny lights couldn’t reach and afraid to look directly at any shaking in the tree she couldn’t explain. From above the fireplace’s dying embers, a cool gust of air washed over her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked to the tree, then up to the loft ceiling.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crunch</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked down at the hearth, at a half-eaten cookie beside the plate her boys had set out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump-thud</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She looked back up at the ceiling. The second floor didn’t extend above this room, so it wasn’t her husband or one of the kids upstairs. There wasn’t even an attic or else she’d blame an animal trapped inside. Well, by that logic, she could still blame an animal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">outside</i>, couldn’t she?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thump-thump, thud, bump-bump.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An animal that high on the roof? Their young trees didn’t extend that tall, and she’d be amazed if a squirrel could pound the shingles so loudly. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Panning her sight back and forth across the ceiling, she heard a scraping by her feet, followed by a scratch and scrabbling within the wall. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The chimney. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">She lowered her gaze to eye level, where it fell on Hellf. Sitting on the mantle. Right in front of her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Gasping, she clapped a hand over her mouth. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The elf’s sneaky sideways glance appeared more menacing when lit from below. He grinned like a maniac, his blush washed from his face in the lights’ dull white glow. Legs crossed, his hands rested on his knee. Tucked between them was a small folded piece of paper. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">Tentatively, she snatched the note from Hellf’s grasp. Watching him with suspicion as she opened the thick stationary, she finally looked down at the calligraphic writing gracing its creamy surface:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mystery and magic are always there.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They’re no illusion, but the love you share.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I <u>have</u> been here and I <u>have</u>been inspecting,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just not from the shelf, like you were expecting.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; page-break-after: avoid; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your boys are <u>Nice</u>, portraits of decency,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; page-break-after: avoid; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Doing more with less, as proven recently.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I gave their prizes to those who had none,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That didn’t stop them from making their own fun.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They didn’t need more things or a doll in goofy poses.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They discovered instead what’s right beneath their noses.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Count the blessings you have, not those you think you should</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If anyone can learn this, I knew your family would.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So please just relax; you needn’t try so hard</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To find the virtues that lie in your own backyard.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yet thanks for the joy—I’ve enjoyed my stay!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And I hope I’ve helped in even one small way.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To set the record straight, in case you’re confused,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am a real elf, not the one you have used.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am not this toy, with a face of plastic,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But a being of flesh—and a dash of fantastic.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(As for the gifts, I didn’t mean to steal.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paying you back is part of Santa’s deal. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speaking of whom, I’ve got to catch my ride.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s here right now, what you hear outside.)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Santa doesn’t give presents, as they say in the stories;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He spreads goodwill and cheer, not commercial glories.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s part of the magic, a piece of the mystery</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That restores faith and light throughout all of history.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So that’s all I’ve got. Hope it didn’t cause fright.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merry Christmas to all, and to Hellf a good night!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br />At some point while reading the letter, the thumping had stopped, the jingling faded, and Mom had stopped shaking. Hellf just sat still, yet she stared at him as if he’d ever been more than festive decoration, touched by magic. She liked him a great deal now, and she loved what he’d come to mean. Carefully folding the note from Santa’s real elf, she popped it into her own stocking. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">The fairy lights would turn off on their own timer, so she left them be. But before retiring upstairs to sleep near the ones she loved, she wound the nativity’s music box until it could wind no more. Tiptoeing away, she let the carol play into the silent night.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #38761d;">~</span> * <span style="color: #38761d;">~</span></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>