A CHRISTMAS LONG AGO
A Christmas so long ago yet so indelible and clear,
When my sister, three years older, told me trenchantly
That Santa wasn't real, that there was no sleigh, no reindeer.
I called her a liar, ran to my room and wept. That afternoon
My father, always a pioneer,
Dragged me out to harvest a tree, driving out of town
To a secret spot he had scouted. He stopped the car, slung the ax over his
Shoulder, and off we tromped, through drifts surging almost to my waist.
The sky turned bitter and austere
And snow swirled in.
Finally we came to a stand of pines in a meadow, the dark, reclusive woods
Beyond, which seemed to beckon me to disappear.
My father picked out a tree and began to chop. I did not see the errant blow
But heard the thud of the blade slicing the hemisphere
Of his leg, his anguished cry. A torrent of blood spurted from the wound.
In one breath my father crumpled and said, "Go get help. Right now."
I was numb with cold and fear,
Knowing both that I could not leave and that I had to go.
I turned but could not see the way we had come, could
Not see the car or the road.
I turned back. Already my father's face was the color of the snow.
Then, I can't explain it, I shut my eyes and wished
With all my might that Santa might appear.
And when I opened my eyes suddenly there he was, a giant buccaneer
Of a man with a white beard, wearing a red
Coat and a red hat, stepping from the woods and striding
Toward us. As he drew closer, he said, "What have we here?"
"It's my dad," I said. "He cut himself."
All in one motion, it seems to me now, he packed the
Gaping wound with snow, applied a tourniquet, scooped up my father
As though he were a folding chair, and began to carry him.
"You take the ax," he said.
He seemed to know the way, and I huffed and puffed behind him
To the car. He threw my father in the back seat, rummaged in his
Pockets for the keys, and off we went, through the snow and the gathering
Darkness. I called my mother from the hospital. When she arrived,
I heard the doctor tell her that my father would be fine
But that it had been a close thing. She hugged me and brushed away a tear
Or two from my face and said, "I still don't quite understand how you got here."
"It was Santa Claus," I told her breathlessly. "He came out of the woods."
"Well, I want to meet this Santa Claus," she said.
But he had left almost as soon as we arrived and never did reappear,
Though to this day no one can tell me that Santa isn't real.
