I am not sure about Santa. I know, of course, that he is not real. That there is no jolly fat old man with a snow white beard (of whatever ethnicity) that lives in the North Pole and makes toys (...the same ones in the stores, mind you) and has a set of magical reindeer. Yes, I know that much. I also know that the spirit of Santa has and will persist at Christmas. That the notion of magic during this holiday season can be very real and beautiful. It becomes a tangible joy that people just can't seem to carry throughout the rest of the year, and that, my friends, is magic. These are the things I'm sure of.
What I am unsure of is me and Santa. Our story. I can't pinpoint where it begins or where it ends. While it's perfectly reasonable to lose sight of the spark of belief, I've found it's a little less than regular to lose the end of it. To forget the moment it all unraveled and I discovered the myth. But that is exactly where I stand.
The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became. It's bigger than when I stopped believing. It's the whole Santa story. Because, to be honest, I don't really remember any of it. I know for sure I was never interested in staying up to try to see Santa. I don't remember the anticipation or excitement of waiting to see what Santa would bring. No wonder of the unbelievable happenings up there at the North Pole.
I'd like to chalk up this hole in my memory as just that. A gap, just another lost recollection from childhood. A minor concern as memories go; I find it much more distressing when I can't recall where I placed my keys. But there is this nagging feeling inside that the unbelievable was always just that. A bit too unbelievable for me.
I'm sure I had some belief at some point, but what I'm not sure of is if I ever wholeheartedly believed like the other children did. That the idea of Santa may have always seemed too amazing for my straight and narrow mind to fully accept. I have always been a girl who could imagine amazing things, but believing in such things is outside my realm of experience. I believed in Santa because my sister (let's call her Ani -- cause I like it and I'm pretty sure she doesn't) believed. I'd wager a bet that soon after she found out the truth, I stopped believing too.
I can't imagine at any point in my childhood if an old man had appeared coming out of the chimney that I would have been anything less than terrified. Alarm bells ringing in my head and the immediate need to get parental assistance. Bag of toys can wait until I see some ID. I can't imagine catching sight of reindeer flying overhead and trying to land on the rooftop being anything less than horrifying. Reindeer are very large animals and roofs really aren't made to hold that kind of weight. Plus they've got to poop at some point during that all-night flight. (Makes that whole vision of reindeer flying overhead you've been holding onto since childhood change drastically, doesn't it...)
But contemplating all this, wrestling to reason out the Santa-sized gap in my mind left me feeling a bit empty. If there was ever a kid that needed a bit of wonder, or at least an adult that needs to remember that feeling of wonder, it's this one. To believe and be enraptured by something amazing and uncommon and joyful and magical. In my memory, my childhood sits as simple phase of life. A filler before real life began. A quiet, boring space rather than a time of adventure and wonder and fearlessness.
And now... Now, I want my wonder. I want to believe in the man in the chimney. Or at least remember a time that I did.
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