Santa Weeps By Charlie Melton

I sit down in the makeshift office. I rarely stop here; I usually pass through while on my way to other parts of the house. Tonight I’m exhausted and sink into the chair. I stare blindly, thinking of nothing except my lethargy. I feel heavy and fluid, as if I might sink to the floor and spread like so much oil. I reach into my shirt pocket to remove my pens and throw them on the desk. My index finger grazes a piece of paper. I pull it out and unfold it. I read and fall into anguish. Playing at Santa tonight should be joyful but a great sadness encompasses me.

The little girl reminded me of my own daughters. She’d given me the letter a few hours earlier. It’s printed in pink and purple marker. The printing is the neatest a first grader can muster. It’s simple and direct. She thinks I’m Santa and it’s her Christmas letter. She gave me the letter in silence, and I read it as if it were her Magnum Opus.

I read the letter again and stare off into the room. I think about my own daughters. I remember them in the first grade. My blank gaze focuses on displayed tokens on the bookshelf. The tokens remind me, and I understand my darkness. The pieces fall into place like the tumblers of a lock.

I remember and I weep. The epiphany is too awful to will it away. I don’t want to see but I can’t look away.

On top of the bookcase lurks a presentation for meritorious service. The citation glows with praise for going beyond the call of duty. It glows with praise for exceptional results from my efforts. As I look at it I realize the real message. It’d be more accurate if it praised me for putting my career before my family. It’d be more accurate if it stated the award was for missing school plays and gymnastics meets and scout meetings.

Another certificate is a letter of promotion. It’s for forsaking dinners at home and bedtime stories to get promoted ahead of my peers. It came with a larger chevron, a modest raise, and a missed birthday.

That’s why I weep. The innocent little girl represents my lost daughters. The innocent little girl reminds me of the tens, and scores, and then hundreds of little things I missed. She reminds me I traded time with my children to build a fleeting career.

In the book this would be the moment that I wake up and find my daughters in their pajamas and snuggled under the Strawberry Shortcake comforter. Every minute I’ve experienced since their 5th Christmas would be erased. I’d make them waffles and listen to silly little stories. I’d see the error of my ways and cherish every moment with the little princesses.

But this isn’t a movie. I bear the guilt for what has been missed. I can rationalize that I raised good girls. I can take the credit for them. I’d be wrong. The truth is they are decent and good in spite of my absence. They succeed in life from their own efforts, not from mine.

My memory of the children that are now grown is full of holes, and now I know it’s not from my old and addled mind. My memory is full of holes because the past is full of holes and voids. Perhaps my epitaph should read only “Not Available”.

I get up from my chair and feel old and weak. I remove the meritorious service award and replace it with the letter to Santa. It replaces the less important papers. The letter takes its rightful place. It’s a Magnum Opus.

Fini.

(Photo credit to originator)