The Christmas spirit flourishes in the innocent heart of a young child, dazzling her imagination with glorious scenes of fleeting reindeer flying gaily across a velvety winter sky, guided by some legendary and mysterious seasonal magic in the prime of the night, and landing as softly as down on the rooftops of all those who believe in Christmas magic.
Just ask any six-year-old child.
It was a cozy evening. Our tree was traditionally garnished with many hanging plastic ornaments, some of which were handcrafted by my own artistic kindergarten hand earlier that month. Tiny colorful blinking lights illuminated our tree with an array of brilliant colors. A string of shiny red beads delicately wrapped the pine, and little burgundy bows were nestled throughout the branches. My mother was out for the evening and my father had occupied himself in the basement with small tasks. I was sprawled out comfortably on the living room floor with the television on while my little sister played quietly with her Barbie dolls in another room. Suddenly, a faint sound of bells could be heard from outside. Curious, I walked into the kitchen and opened the door to the garage. The car was still gone, but I called out my mother’s name anyway, taking for granted that maybe she was the source of these mysterious bells.
No answer, but the noise continued. I shut the door and walked to the living room window. Peeking through the blinds, my heart joyously fluttered.
Could it be?
There must have been true Christmas magic filling the air that night, because there he stood, in our driveway beside an old Dodge Caravan, clad in a thick red suit and wearing a white beard that concealed his entire mouth and chin. Dangling from his hand was a string of silver jingle bells. Excited, I ran from the window and screamed for my father, who immediately came rushing up the stairs. “It’s Santa!” I shouted.
But by the time my father peered through the blinds, Santa Claus was gone.
This is a moment in my childhood I will never forget.