Christmas Dreams
Terrence pulled his blankets up to his knees. He didn’t dare to breathe, in case Santa Claus arrived downstairs. He strained his ears for the slightest sound. Anxiously, he slipped out of bed and pushed the window open. Snowflakes peppered his hair and the wind whipped at his face. He stuck his head out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of reindeer pawing at the roof.
Cheeks rosy, he retreated inside and settled back into bed, rustling his covers.
JINGLE.
Green eyes shining, he leapt from bed and tiptoed down the stairs without a sound. The old wooden steps creaked, and with great care he manuevered his way down to make the least noise as possible. A large figure was piling presents beneath the Christmas tree. Terrence ducked behind the worn checkered sofa and from his hiding spot watched Santa Claus.
Suddenly, the figure turned around, and all the breath escaped him. The person sat down at the table and ran their fingers through their hair. Delicately they took one of the cookies off the plate and ate it. The person yawned and turned to the glass of milk. Soon all that remained was a pile of crumbs and an empty glass.
“Dad?” Terrence whispered. His father turned to him, shocked. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and picked the little boy up from behind the sofa. They sat together on the couch.
“Where’s Santa?” he said indignantly, feet swinging above the carpet. His dad gave him a look of empathy.
“He’s, um, on his way,” Terrence’s father replied. “He has a lot of stops to make. It’s Christmas Eve.” He scratched at the graying stubble on his chin.
“Really?” the young boy protested. He leaped from the sofa and shook one of the presents. “To Terrence? From Santa? You put these under the tree! I saw you.”
He looked at his father. The old man rubbed the bags under his eyes and yanked off a shimmering piece of tape attached to his sweater. “I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Tears streamed down Terrence’s face, and he ran up to his room and slammed the door. He sobbed under his blankets for some time. All the while, snowflakes twirled and sparkled outside as they continued their slow progress toward the ground. Eventually he threw his blanket off and started when he saw his father sitting next to his bed.
His father reached over and hugged his son. “I want you to have something.” The boy expected a gift, but his father just eyed at him sadly. “I want you to have faith in Santa, because he’s real.” Terrence sniffed and looked away stubbornly. “He’s not real,” he muttered.
“Yes, he is,” said his father comfortingly. “In your heart.” He put a hand on his emerald sweater and then returned it to his knee. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the young boy pulled the window open and stared out at the moon. Something small floated by, and very faintly he could hear bells jingling. A Ho-Ho-Ho shattered the night air. “I knew you were real,” he cried. And with that, he fell asleep.
