Early Gifts
My seven-year-old daughter, Melanie, stares up at me with her blue moon, caught-in-the-act eyes. Tears spill over her eyelashes and down her cheeks while a panicked anxiety washes over me. She just found the stash of Christmas presents under my and her mother’s bed and I realize this is a moment she will remember for the rest of her life. What’s a father supposed to do in this situation? I contemplate calling downstairs to my wife and passing off the whole thing on her, when I notice how much Melanie, with those beautiful blue eyes and long red hair, reminds me of her Aunt Georgia.
Georgia is my younger sister. We haven’t spoken in years, not since our parents passed away. Sorrow, fatigue, my pride, and of course, money, did in our sibling relationship. At the time, Melanie was only a few months old. She never got to know the aunt she so resembles.
When Georgia was six years old, she begged me to go with her to see Santa Claus. My mother, who must have sensed the Santa-doubt creeping through my eight-year-old body, stared me down and willed me to say, “Sure, I’ll go with you, Georgia. How else would Santa know what I want?”
As I sat on Santa’s lap at Wiebolt’s Department Store, my doubts were only intensified by the old guy’s fake beard, the smell of mouthwash and cigarettes on his breath, and the unbridled wafts of Old Spice. Whether or not Santa really existed, I knew this Wiebolt’s Santa was a farce. Georgia, on the other hand, just smiled with giddy excitement when she sat on his lap, putting all her faith into this stranger masquerading in a red suit.
Three days before Christmas, Georgia and I played hide-and-seek in the house. I found her sitting in my parents’ closet amidst a pile of wrapped presents. She opened the label on one package wrapped in red and green paper— To: Georgia - From: Santa— written in my mom’s script. Then next to it, another bigger box in snowman paper— To: Josh - From: Santa— written by my dad. A dozen more gifts sat on top of them and, in my mind, added up to only one possibility.
Georgia turned to me with wide-eyed excitement and laughed. “Santa came early.”
“Santa?” I said, “That’s Mom and Dad’s handwriting on the labels.” I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, although honestly, I felt the evidence should have been pretty compelling, even to my six-year-old sister.
Georgia shook her head and spoke very slowly, as if I were a dimwitted younger brother. “Joshua, it’s not like Santa really flies around the world in one night. Even I know that’s not possible. He probably delivered these earlier and asked Mommy and Daddy to hide them until Christmas.”
For a brief moment, I had an arrogant urge to crush her little dream. Then she smiled at me. I looked into her gorgeous blue eyes framed by her flowing red hair, and decided to give Georgia an early Christmas gift: the gift of innocence, at least for one more year. “That makes sense, Georgia. You must be right.”
So now, one week before Christmas, my daughter, having found her presents, looks up at me with her own blue eyes and a tear-stained face. She sobs, clutching her arms around my neck. “Santa really doesn’t exist. Just like Timmy at school said.”
I pause and silently curse this little Timmy, then I thank Georgia because I realize I wasn’t the only one giving an early Christmas gift so long ago. Although she couldn’t have realized it and certainly didn’t plan it, Georgia gave me an early present, too. I simply had to wait 29 years in order to use it.
I kiss Melanie’s head and turn her chin up toward my face. “Honey, Santa dropped these gifts off early.” I smile. “He was very busy so he asked Mommy and me to hide them until Christmas.”
Melanie stares at me a long 10 seconds, weighing my sincerity. After a final snuffled breath, she smiles, and runs off into her seven-year-old world.
Afterwards, I call my sister, but not without some trepidation. “Merry Christmas, Georgia,” I say, when she answers, startled at the tears welling up in my eyes. “I miss you, sis.”
Her breath catches. “Joshua,” she says. Then I hear a smile form in her voice. “It’s been too long.”
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Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.
My seven-year-old daughter, Melanie, stares up at me with her blue moon, caught-in-the-act eyes. Tears spill over her eyelashes and down her cheeks while a panicked anxiety washes over me. She just found the stash of Christmas presents under my and her mother’s bed and I realize this is a moment she will remember for the rest of her life. What’s a father supposed to do in this situation? I contemplate calling downstairs to my wife and passing off the whole thing on her, when I notice how much Melanie, with those beautiful blue eyes and long red hair, reminds me of her Aunt Georgia.
Georgia is my younger sister. We haven’t spoken in years, not since our parents passed away. Sorrow, fatigue, my pride, and of course, money, did in our sibling relationship. At the time, Melanie was only a few months old. She never got to know the aunt she so resembles.
When Georgia was six years old, she begged me to go with her to see Santa Claus. My mother, who must have sensed the Santa-doubt creeping through my eight-year-old body, stared me down and willed me to say, “Sure, I’ll go with you, Georgia. How else would Santa know what I want?”
As I sat on Santa’s lap at Wiebolt’s Department Store, my doubts were only intensified by the old guy’s fake beard, the smell of mouthwash and cigarettes on his breath, and the unbridled wafts of Old Spice. Whether or not Santa really existed, I knew this Wiebolt’s Santa was a farce. Georgia, on the other hand, just smiled with giddy excitement when she sat on his lap, putting all her faith into this stranger masquerading in a red suit.
Three days before Christmas, Georgia and I played hide-and-seek in the house. I found her sitting in my parents’ closet amidst a pile of wrapped presents. She opened the label on one package wrapped in red and green paper— To: Georgia - From: Santa— written in my mom’s script. Then next to it, another bigger box in snowman paper— To: Josh - From: Santa— written by my dad. A dozen more gifts sat on top of them and, in my mind, added up to only one possibility.
Georgia turned to me with wide-eyed excitement and laughed. “Santa came early.”
“Santa?” I said, “That’s Mom and Dad’s handwriting on the labels.” I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, although honestly, I felt the evidence should have been pretty compelling, even to my six-year-old sister.
Georgia shook her head and spoke very slowly, as if I were a dimwitted younger brother. “Joshua, it’s not like Santa really flies around the world in one night. Even I know that’s not possible. He probably delivered these earlier and asked Mommy and Daddy to hide them until Christmas.”
For a brief moment, I had an arrogant urge to crush her little dream. Then she smiled at me. I looked into her gorgeous blue eyes framed by her flowing red hair, and decided to give Georgia an early Christmas gift: the gift of innocence, at least for one more year. “That makes sense, Georgia. You must be right.”
So now, one week before Christmas, my daughter, having found her presents, looks up at me with her own blue eyes and a tear-stained face. She sobs, clutching her arms around my neck. “Santa really doesn’t exist. Just like Timmy at school said.”
I pause and silently curse this little Timmy, then I thank Georgia because I realize I wasn’t the only one giving an early Christmas gift so long ago. Although she couldn’t have realized it and certainly didn’t plan it, Georgia gave me an early present, too. I simply had to wait 29 years in order to use it.
I kiss Melanie’s head and turn her chin up toward my face. “Honey, Santa dropped these gifts off early.” I smile. “He was very busy so he asked Mommy and me to hide them until Christmas.”
Melanie stares at me a long 10 seconds, weighing my sincerity. After a final snuffled breath, she smiles, and runs off into her seven-year-old world.
Afterwards, I call my sister, but not without some trepidation. “Merry Christmas, Georgia,” I say, when she answers, startled at the tears welling up in my eyes. “I miss you, sis.”
Her breath catches. “Joshua,” she says. Then I hear a smile form in her voice. “It’s been too long.”
Back to Andrew's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.