BLOGMAS #24: MY LETTER TO SANTA
I have avoided this letter all month.
I am out of magic, Santa. Out of majesty and hope and wonder. What am I to make of Christmas when my family is fractured, my children shuffled between homes like old mail?
'Tis the season, they say. Lights sparkle on rooftops, in windows, over our bed while we sleep. But for all the wonder that surrounds, I can think only of custody schedules. All the math inside me is subtraction, a desperate balancing act.
We use the words ideal and split in the same sentence, chase 50/50 like there is some joy in that ending. Again, again, again I am reminded that in a perfect world, I will hold my girls for only half their childhoods.
I do not want this, Santa. Do not want to be lost in grief when three of our kids are hunting elves and counting down to your return.
Are you real? Is there some part of you that lives despite Aleppo? Despite the daily carousel of bodies and vitriol?
I don't remember the year I stopped believing. I only know that this year I have looked for miracles in every corner, have called them every name I know.
If you are out there, Santa, I have only one wish: let the next year weigh less on my heart and on the hearts of my friends, let us breathe easily and laugh often, let us remember magic.
Sincerely,
With all that I am
