Granddaughter, Amelia, hovers over my head. She is a three-year-old practiced aeronaut.
“Gampa,” she squeaks.
“Yes, my little bird,” I say, “What can I tell you?”
“The same…about Sanna Caws.”
“Santa Claus, my dear.”
“I said that,” she snaps, her rotors twirling close to my naked ears.
I regret my correction. These days, children are always right.
“You did. Gampa’s sorry.”
“Tell me ‘bout Christmas…how it once was.”
“My love, it was special day. One day when the world imagined itself at peace.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I say,” Christmas is every day.”
“That’s so fun.”
“So sad,” I think.
“Gampa,” she squeaks.
“Yes, my little bird,” I say, “What can I tell you?”
“The same…about Sanna Caws.”
“Santa Claus, my dear.”
“I said that,” she snaps, her rotors twirling close to my naked ears.
I regret my correction. These days, children are always right.
“You did. Gampa’s sorry.”
“Tell me ‘bout Christmas…how it once was.”
“My love, it was special day. One day when the world imagined itself at peace.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I say,” Christmas is every day.”
“That’s so fun.”
“So sad,” I think.
