Here’s another one that expresses what many of us can’t about the Connecticut massacre. Pay attention to the story, and always look into the eyes.
My dad was Santa. Really.
It was a secret
And I couldn’t tell anyone.
Pretty hard for a little kid.
It wasn’t a cheap suit, but one in heavy rich red velvet
Kitten-soft when you hugged.
There wasn’t any sign that the curly white beard wasn’t real.
It was obvious by the way he focused and really listened to each child explain his or her heart’s desire, that this really wasn’t an act.
But he was Santa, right?
He wandered around JMH, a small local grocery, with a bag of candy canes and merrily exclaiming Ho-ho-ho!
Asking each if they had been naughty or nice…even some of the grown-ups!
Mom was doing the weekly shopping.
And we skated down the polished aisles searching.
Once Santa was in sight, older brother held my hand – just in case I started to blurt anything out.
Once the intense conference with a…
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