Dear Santa,

Remember the year I wanted an EZ Bake oven and my brother wanted a television?  And I kept telling my brother Santa doesn’t bring TVs as I was kind-hearted enough to not want him to be disappointed but also bratty enough to point out how stupid his request was.  You brought me a nonfunctional console tv that my dad later turned into a desk. The note on it said, I got a TV that didn’t work because I hadn’t believed.  He got a freaking television.

I still think that was a sucky thing to do.  It’s not like EZ Bake ovens were in short supply or anything.  And I wanted it so bad.  As much as the brat wanted a TV. 

Sure, I liked the desk, but you couldn’t exactly make a cake with it.  No light bulb. Never mind that I now have three desks in my home and two at my office and I really love desks. 

The point here is getting lost.

I think it’s time you made up for the lifeless console TV. 

This year I have a want.  As you well know I haven’t had a want for years and years other than to be surprised.  This year I want one present that someone has taken the time to consider my likes and dislikes, my personality, my hobbies, and my quirks.  Something someone has put some time into.  It could be an EZ Bake Oven for all I care.  It could be an EZ Bake Oven cake mix.  It could be a neat rock found on the Williams River.  I don’t care.

Last year was right awful and this year isn’t looking better.  I don’t want the thing.  I want the magic of Christmas.  The ability to believe that Santa can slide down a chimney in a chimneyless house and leave a TV. 

I love Christmas.  I always have.  I am surrounded by people who are burnt out and I’ve got a cold. 

I have loved Christmas always – even the year I found out you were allegedly unreal.  My mother told me her truth after some pointed questions by yours truly. After my brother and I had gone to bed she came and got me out of bed to show me the gifts under the tree in the moonlight.  Santa had come even though I didn’t believe anymore.  How did she know I had been worried?

That was the year, I got the frilly chiffon nightgown and robe in a gorgeous lilac color with a midnight blue bottle of Evening in Paris perfume nestled into the chiffon.  It was all wrapped in tissue paper settled into a nice gift box, wrapped again in gold foil and tied with ribbons.  Oh, how my little girl heart twirled. 

Never mind that my brother spent Christmas afternoon pouring the perfume down the toilet because I had read the label to him:  Evening in Paris Eau de Toilette. My French was lacking at 6. It is lacking now.

I want the magic of Christmas.  The past few years, I have tried to give the magic.  Each year, I have tried to make the holiday special.  Their eyes didn’t light up.

This year I want the magic for me.  Or at least to get over this cold.  Preferably both.  I know I’m being greedy which is the not the spirit. 

Christmas magic isn’t about greed.  It’s not about the thing.  It’s about the want and someone caring to make it come true.  To feel like you matter in the universe.  To mimic God’s love and abundance. 

I want the magic, Santa.  Please.

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