It all started with a whisper. A breath. A barely audible sound that escaped from my lips, filling the utter silence of the night with the sound of an exhale. It was amazing how loud one tiny breath could sound in the darkness of the night.
All through my life, I never believed in them. My parents told me they were hiding the eggs for Easter. Whenever I lost a tooth, they gave me the quarter on the spot. They wrapped all my gifts for Christmas, and gave me a story before bed that assured sweet dreams.
But the last one; the creator of cold, frostbite, gusts of wind, sudden snow; he’s the one who got me. And then, that night, the night before my sixteenth birthday, which wouldn’t be celebrated, due to the lack of money in our large family, I believed. I sat up in bed, and breathed the slightest of noises.
“I believe.”
I hadn’t realized the noise had come from me at first. It was so small, so tiny, that it took the silence of night to allow it to be heard.
“I believe.”
I said it again, louder, so I could hear myself, believe myself that I was the one who had said it. But I had a sudden sense of doubt that faltered my breath. I knew he was real…but…what if he wasn’t? What if the last one I believed in…didn’t believe in me? How would I survive with the burden of believing something for sixteen years, only to have them let me down in the end? How hard would that hit me?
I shook my head, getting away from the depressing thoughts. No, I told myself. Not tonight, not the night before my birthday. I’m not going to lie that on me, not now. I sighed, the edge of doubt cutting into my optimism. I lied down, and dreamt of Jack Frost.
