Six degrees, the ground is covered in white. The anticipation is there in my child mind. I know Santa is not real. I learned that when I was eight. Yet, I wonder.
Maybe it won’t matter I lied about hitting my sister. Maybe it won’t matter I stole matches from the kitchen. I don’t want to talk back; it just sorta happens.
I can’t fall asleep. Excitement gnaws at me, pesters me. Is he real? Is he not real? I know what I want to believe, so I listen, just in case, and stare out my bedroom window in wait.
Maybe it won’t matter I lied about hitting my sister. Maybe it won’t matter I stole matches from the kitchen. I don’t want to talk back; it just sorta happens.
I can’t fall asleep. Excitement gnaws at me, pesters me. Is he real? Is he not real? I know what I want to believe, so I listen, just in case, and stare out my bedroom window in wait.
