Last year you told me that Christmas was your favorite season back when you were six years old. How you believed in Santa Claus and all his reindeers and factory elves every time you spotted a gift near your Christmas tree or inside your Santa sock.
But one day you learned that Santa wasn’t real because you caught your father sneak your gift under the Christmas tree. And that ruined all the joy and excitement that Christmas used to give you. The thing that people call the Christmas Spirit.
But you were lucky you know? Because I never believed in Santa as a kid because it was evident to me that he wasn’t real because what kind of person would have that kind of generosity? No one I thought.
And you promised me. You promised me that we’d meet this Christmas. And you didn’t. You actually came early. Three days early. Seeing you wearing a Santa hat as I opened the front door.
And we kissed under the mistletoe under a thousand stars under a moonlight and yet above everything including heaven because we were high in Christmas Spirit.
And I looked at you, and you’re real.
And you looked at me, and you’re six years old again.