lost in paradise

The Real Santa

Time really doesn’t heal; it just blurs things. Sometimes hard facts are faded beyond recognition, while other times it is simply the day or hour that escapes from memory. Either way, you are still left with a hole which that memory used to fill. I consider myself a strong person, but there is one memory that does make me weak. It never fails to make me upset, not for myself, but for my mother. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was four at the time, innocent and pure. I had not experienced enough of the world to make me bitter or cenacle. I was young and had so much life ahead of me. It was Christmas time; so happy and joyous, but that was about to change. I never realized that Christmas morning of 2001 would change my life. I woke up, and ran upstairs, hoping that we could start opening the heaps of presents right away. Of course, my brother had already beaten me up the stairs and was waiting with gifts in his hands for my parents, who came lazily around the corner. The chaos began. Presents were ripped open, paper was flying and we were all smiling. I took a closer look at the next present I grabbed from underneath the tree. Santa was not scrawled on the red paper. I reached for another to find the same blank sheet. I looked at my parents with desperation for an answer. Did Santa forget to write his signature or did he not come at all? My mother looked at me with a tired expression before making my brother pause his unwrapping to listen to her.
“When I was a girl, Santa came ever year to our house, and we were just as excited as you are, but we never got much stuff. I was okay with that and loved what I did get, but when I went to school the other kids would tell me what Santa brought them and I would get disappointed because their presents were bigger and better than mine. I came from a poor family and got little from Santa, but the rich kids got so much. Why did Santa like the rich kids more? I went home and was upset, of course. I didn’t understand what they did that I didn’t do. I asked my mother why Santa didn’t like us as much and why he liked the rich kids. I don’t want you to ever feel the way I did, so I’m telling you what my mother told me. Santa doesn’t exist.”
My brother and I sat frozen on the living room floor. It came as a shock to both of us, but it seemed true all the same. My mother had no doubt in her eyes, but my heart was filled with it. My mother wouldn’t lie to us, so I had to accept it. As a four year old, it was difficult to grasp and I was quite emotional afterwards. It felt as if a piece of me was gone and I was left empty. It was my first real heartbreak, but I had to accept and move on. I proceeded to open my presents on that cool December morning; thanking my parents for the gifts instead of Santa. That day I stopped believing in Santa Claus.