Opinion

One last letter to Santa

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Dear Mr. Claus,

By my calendar, the mutually agreed-upon twenty-five-year moratorium on our having written communications expired Monday of this past week; I'll thank you again for allowing it to end without much protraction (and for rescinding the request that I take care of your attorneys' fees). I freely admit to being quite excited about composing this communication. In anticipation of assembling this letter, I spent several weeks perusing the archives of my elementary school-period writings, scanning the documents to recall (and perhaps revive) the energies I'd had when I wrote to you all those years ago.

As I planned my missive, however, I found myself at a loss -- and not just for words. Indeed, one painful fact crystallized for me: I'm out of practice when it comes to composing letters to you.

Let's be frank, Santa (and I hope you don't mind me using your first name again; if you are truly "letting bygones be bygones," then you won't), it's been a good while since I've written you to puff up my good behavior, ask in passing about any combination of your spouse, elven staffers or reindeer, then inundate you with my Christmas wish list. As you are well-aware, a skill is like any muscle: the less it is exercised, the weaker it becomes. Inactivity ultimately risks atrophy. (The previous statement, by the way, was not intended as some back-handed crack about your weight; I appreciate why you might read it as such -- it was among the crux issues that led to our falling-out -- but these days, as you know, I can more than empathize with you, thanks to the seminars.)

Would I falter in this endeavor? Would I be unable to conjure the right words, never mind express them properly? Should I even take this opportunity to reopen this line of communication, particularly if I no longer possess the wherewithal to use it the way it was intended?

Then I found my answer -- all of them, actually -- staring back at me from a beige piece of paper. On it was a letter I'd written you during my first-grade year. Sure, the penciling wasn't as crisp as I remembered, but it was simple. Concise. And in its own way, elegant.

I think you remember seeing it, but just in case:

Dear Santa,

How are you? I am fine.

Are your reindeer happy?

I have been very good this year.

Please bring me Hot Wheels.

Love, Jeremy

That's when it hit me, Santa, the reason I was struggling so much with this. I finally realized what I'd lost. Something that can seem so small, but for those who still have it, it's a true treasure.

My innocence was gone.

That quiet little boy that once was me, wide-eyed and open-hearted, is now a memory, only present in words he'd pressed into a pulpy piece of ruled writing paper. He is now the man writing you today, fully-grown, sadder-but-wiser and all that.

I briefly considered asking if you could retrieve my innocence for me, but to be honest, I don't think I'd really want it back. I'm doing okay in life; better than okay, really. I have a wonderful wife and a good job working with some very nice people. I'm not always "very good," but I'm working on it, and I hope it shows. And I wouldn't trade what I've learned in life, through good times and bad, for anything.

So, Santa, this will be my last letter to you. I hope you remain jolly throughout your busiest season (and all the seasons to come); my constant best wishes to Mrs. Claus, the reindeer and the elves as well.

If I could ask for one gift, it would be that during this Christmas season -- and every season after, too -- we adults take a moment to think about the good we can do for others, especially the young and the less fortunate, and then take real, decisive action. (I don't know if you carry catalysts for such impulses aboard your sleigh, but it never hurts to ask.)

Thank you, good sir. And Merry Christmas!

With great affection, Jeremy

P.S. And if you brought me Hot Wheels again, I wouldn't say no.

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