Santa Claus never arrives in those early moments of soft sleep; he waits for deeper slumber.
So I wait.
Likely because of the old man, I love Christmas. He was terse and gruff, but December has always brought out something lighter in him–the feint of small items wrapped in boxes loaded with a few bricks, the simple pleasure of exuberant children, the ecstasy of unbridled avarice.
Now I am a father and find myself similarly captured by the moment. Soon, it will all be over save the clean up and assembly that I alas did not escape, though I briefly thought I had. And though I may gripe, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It is as though there is a giant leg lamp hovering above me, illuminating every facet of my existence.
Merry Christmas. May your day be bathed in a soft glow.