What I want for Christmas:
(Check all boxes that apply, even if you’re Jewish, or you stopped believing years ago;
use exclamation points for things that warrant them)
√ Happiness √ Hired help •Success
√ Wisdom √ Health •Puppy
[ewww!] Fruitcake • Wealth ! Superb regift
• Garden gnome ! Freedom from guilt √ No regrets
• Self acceptance • Wad of cash •Personal growth
! Perspective ! Parking karma • Brand new car
! A clue ! Therapy (massage) • One of everything
And don’t forget:
Not to slight you, Santa, but I don’t see “a visit from a companion spirit” on the form, which is what I really want. (Three !!! for that one.) Oh, I know they’re around. I often feel him riding shotgun or hear the little redheaded one in my head cheering me on. But my father doesn’t make himself known, and I never see any of them. Is that because becoming embodied after the bodies are gone is just too difficult, or is it simply unnecessary?
Here’s what I want, Santa:
My angels dancing, not on the head of a pin, but out in the yard where I can see them. They beckon to me as the last of the crunchy sycamore leaves decorates the greening lawn. And I hear their music, not heavenly chorales, but a bouncy bopping tune that even I, the klutz with two left feet, can follow as I make my way to them, to him, the tall, bearded one who married me 33 years ago today, on a cold, clear morning just like this one, my hands as icy then as now. On the right one I wear a ring inscribed with his name, and he takes my chilly hands in his, warming them instantly, and we dance and dance and dance.