I was afraid of Santa. I was in awe of him, I think, but I was also afraid of him. We only have two pictures of me and Santa from when I was a kid. I’m not sure if I somehow knew that the guy in the department store wasn’t the real Santa, or what. I honestly don’t even remember when I stopped believing.
I only remember one time that I was totally jacked about Santa. I was maybe six, and it was Christmas Eve. I woke up in the middle of the night (or at least, that is what I thought), to a quiet, dark house. I suddenly heard from the living room the sound of a coaster clicking on the table, where I had oh-so-carefully placed Santa’s milk and cookies. I was, at that moment, convinced.
I’m not sure what happened later on to make me change my mind. But a part of me is a little sad for that six year old I once was, for losing that magic. I just don’t know where it goes.
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