“You are a fifty-three-year-old woman living in Chicago. Write a letter to Santa.”
Dear Santa (Saint Nick, Father Christmas, Mr. Claus, whatever it is you call yourself these days),
I’ve never written to you before. Isn’t that odd? The thing is, my father didn’t believe in you. Well, he didn’t believe in making the world magical for children. On Christmas day, he would give me a small gift, sure, something he had picked up from the convenience store. I think the last one was a jumbo pack of Skittles. Thanks Dad.
I made my own traditions once I left that house. Even though I usually spend Christmas on my own, my tree is filled with little presents to myself, and the entire house is covered in every decoration you can imagine. My own winter wonderland on the outskirts of Chicago. That’s where I live.
Sorry, I’m rambling. I know you have lots of letters to read, so I’ll get to the point.
It’s Christmas time again. The city is covered in snow, my house is once again decorated, and the gingerbread scent is wafting around me. Usually that’s enough. Every other year before this one, that has satisfied me; it has filled the vacancy, the hole that I let grow within me for years under my father’s roof.
This year it just isn’t the same. As I sit in my house, in the same place that has always given me so much comfort, I feel that something is missing.
I’ve thought about it from every angle. I think this is what loneliness feels like.
Isn’t it funny? All these years I’ve been alone, but never lonely.
Since this is your time of year, I figured that you might be the one to help me solve it. So here goes.
Santa, this Christmas I would like you to bring me someone to share it with. Anyone. I’m not picky. I promise that I’ll add a special present or two under the tree for whomever you send.
There’ll be some of my famous (at least to me) gingerbread men cookies waiting for you, too.
Yours, still a little unbelievingly,