Santa Hat

 

December ninth is a time for getting ready. The woman, not quite old but no longer young, passed a young mother who was coping with her little boy. The lad looked to be about five years old. He was being fussy in a way that said he would rather be home on this Saturday morning, wrapped up in a blanket, eating cereal straight from a box while watching cartoons.

Instead of that cozy picture he was here, on the cold street with his mother and cranky. The woman had no idea why these two were up and about but it most likely had to do with the season. In December most things did.

     She turned the corner and continued on her way. Coming toward her going in the opposite direction was a man just shy of six foot tall. He was a sturdy fellow, not quite fat but defiantly roundish. His clothing was unremarkable, suiting the brisk weather but his beard was a thing of beauty. It was white and flowed out from his face in a fan that covered not just his face but the upper half of his chest in carefully combed strands. Topping off this picture was a Santa hat made of thick warm plush fabric. He didn’t wear bells but a tinkling silent echo followed his every move.

     The woman smiled in a way that tasted like chocolate, roast chicken and late nights in bed listening to echoes of the outside world with the whispered sound of your parents talking in the living room down stairs. She smiled in a way that said, I don’t believe in magic anymore but I remember when I did and that, has magic all its own.

     Eyes twinkling the man said, “Now that makes it all worthwhile.”

     They passed each other with a knowledge that a dream had been shared. After a few more steps the woman turned back calling after him.

     “Fair warning, there’s a small human just ahead.”

     By now the young mother had got her charge as far as the corner. The boy stopped dead. Still and staring he watched the man cross the street. For his part, on the other side of the street, the man in the Santa hat turned looked at the boy and winked. He put a finger to one side of his nose, tapped slightly then walked off.

     The woman finished her shopping and started home all the while thinking of this small spark of wonder. A different older mother and her son who looked to be about ten walked past her.

As they went the woman heard the mother say, “Stories are very useful. They can teach you all sorts of things about how people live, and what they think.”

This was undeniably true but not nearly enough. The woman wanted to chase after this mother and give her a good shake. She wanted to say stories weren’t just teaching tools. Stories were a kind of magic that could keep you alive. They made real what never could be and made small the monsters that stole away your dreams. Stories needed to exist, because there weren’t nearly enough men in Santa hats to go around.