when did i stop believing in santa claus?
does anybody know when the fat man
took a final bow? lately, christmas has been
a week of obligations—present-giving,
family-fawning, light-stringing, carol-singing,
cookie-baking chaos. some year—and perhaps
it was the year mr. claus retired—the nativity
of our lord became a pageant of attempted resurrection,
a dervish of plasticine trinkets designed to return
christmas to childhood awe and perhaps, between the
punch, a savior. yes, i’m afraid,
christmas is anymore a copperfieldian ruse gone
horribly awry. but let’s try again next year, shall we?