The display windows covered in velvet ribbons and tinsel. The tinkle of ringing bells around every corner. The snow, the presents, the frigging good cheer. Yeah, it sucked all right. Sure, it was only once a year, but that was one time too many. Carolers, months of Christmas music, candy canes, and all but Cindy Lou Who skipping down the sidewalk. It was too much. Too damn much. I was seven when I knew there wasn’t a Santa anymore. I was thirteen when my sister started the whole ‘is there really a Santa’ thing, and ‘the kids at school say….’ The usual stuff and that she was seven, the same age I’d been, only made it worse. So I lied. Sure there was a Santa. And when Mom told me to take her to see store Santa, I hadn’t bitched too much. She and Dad both had to work. They worked hard. We weren’t poor, but we sure weren’t rich either. Dad was a good hunter and that put food on the table, but it didn’t pay the electric or the mortgage. Plus I remembered what it was like, how knowing had taken the magic out of Christmas.
