Christmas had persisted upon approaching once more. Attempting to lure miserable workers into interminable bliss of joy, festivity and presents once more. It was that time of year again. Where festivities frolicked among miserable toil. Where the joyful stapled a smile upon their faces once more and spread bliss into one unhappy soul at a time. Attempting to warm the hearts of those gone cold, or at least a corner of the black abyss they possessed and called “a heart”.

At 15 I was too old to still be thinking that Santa clause had existed. I never really was able to grasp the fact that he was a living and breathing creation. The idea of a man obese and able to fling down chimneys easily and unheard was always opaque. Yet why rain on everyone else’s parade? So I went about the daily festivity in a joy, masking the torment that lingered beyond the joyful sparkling eyes. I’m a convincing liar. Nevertheless in occurrence to all my torment and lack of everlasting joy I took my nook at the kitchen table yearly, grasping a pen and staring down at the paper, plotting the route to receive presents I was writing to acquire. Taking great care to outline how I’d been a little angel. Whereas mentally I gagged and rolled my eyes simultaneously at my written words filled with so much joy. This had become a ritual within my family. As did masking the unseen torment within my eyes. After all, I did have enough practice. I impelled upon separation.

This year the ritual had been going just about the same as every other year for as long as I could remember. In addition to my sister being added into the “joyous” ritual. Unlike me she showed genuine interest and delirium upon communicating with the fictional man who was full of magic and joy, sporting his signature costume of red. Also known as the ardent Santa Clause.

I started writing to Santa clause at seven years of age. Starring at my sister attempting to perfect her master piece had chaperoned memories of the first time I had written to ol’ Saint Nick. Her doll like face was scrunched in concentration. Her tongue ingeniously lolled out as she attempted to perfect every individual letter. The Jet black hair that normally encompassed her face tumbled out in front of her and onto the table. The pen was tightly clutched into her phalanges. Her eyes gleamed as she tried out the thoughts that simultaneously poured into her head. Occasionally her head thrust up as she asked for my opinion, cross -examine her thoughts. The first time I had written to Santa clause, like her, my brows were furrowed in concentration as I attempted to perfect every single line in occurrence as to how I’d been a star sterling of a girl and deserved the many presents that I was writing to accumulate. After all, even though I didn’t believe in Santa didn’t mean I couldn’t get a fair share of “his” presents. Everyone else did.

Leaning back into my chair I thought about the festivities this jubilee brought with outstretched arms. I’d never been one to judge Christmas, in fact I rarely judged upon the many trials of daily life (yeah probably hard to believe). Yet now, sitting in my chair I let my thoughts flow freely and critiqued upon the holiday that brings cheer and festivity. One that had been handed down several generations. And changed to acquiesces to our modern day needs.

Christmas had always been a blithe saturnalia. One that came into mirth with the birth of Jesus Christ. Yet now I wonder if this “letter to Santa” highlights morals we should instill within children. For instance the “bad” kids don’t receive what they had wanted. Instead they were greeted with coal on Christmas day. So what if some delinquent had been greeted with presents? Does that mean their semi-good? And what if someone had been downright horrible and received platters of presents? That would mean it was alright to continue on with their behavior. Right? So if you were poor and couldn’t afford Christmas were you bad? Wealth interacts with behavior. Several accusations jumped into mind. The only response I could come up with was “define bad”

Christmas had turned into a jubilee that was beginning to sound relatively appalling the more I dissected it in my mind. Seeing how many presents you received and the value of the presents. Greed has crept unsuspectingly and captured our minds without our knowledge- unaware. Even with a festivity as “joyous” as Christmas.

A chuckle escapes my lips as I begin to think of the almighty scrooge.

This earns me a curious glance from my sister before she quickly returns to the scrawls on her page. Who’d want an annoying sister to disturb the train of imaginative bliss which they were so tuned into? It was the better channel on television.

Poor Ebenezer Scrooge. Misjudged. Apparently we still haven’t caught on. Hes’ always been looked upon as the “bad guy” excessively frowned upon. Who wouldn’t turn hate after all the critique that tormented him? Is it so bad to be different? Besides, after my thoughts Scrooge has earned the right to be referred to as a saint.

Suddenly, my past comes flooding back to me. Birthdays, pain, Christmas wishes, brushings, beatings, school, childhood, and lost love. Is this what has been influencing my negative attitude? Well happiness is an antediluvian. Well at least for me

I now know what I want for Christmas. My letter to Santa forms in record time. After half an hour I’ve finished the traditional ritual. Re-reading it, a slow smile plays upon my lips. It’s perfect.

Mailing my letter and my sisters I wonder how “Santa Clause” bearer of gaiety and apparently prosperity would react upon reading my letter. Perhaps he’d call over Mrs. Clause and disturb her frequent cooking. Nevertheless she’d walk over, clearing the remaining gingerbread dough on her apron at his request. He’d then hand over my Christmas request in abashed daze, asking for her opinion by having her analyze my letter. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was perplexed. Upon my proposal, after all a death wish for Christmas would perplex some. Especially a death wish upon my own soul.