I came upstairs from the never-ending laundry chore this evening to find nine-year-old sitting by himself at the kitchen table writing a letter to Santa. I'm not sure how it happened exactly, but he was so sweetly in earnest that I stepped away, hovering in the next room in case he needed me. Sure enough, my proofreading skills were quickly demanded--because, it is important you know, to make certain that one spells all words in a letter to Santa correctly, lest one receive gum instead of a gun.
This letter writing was such a gift of the season for me, as ten-year-old and I had just shared a conversation a few days back about how one needs to pretend to believe in Santa if one still wants to receive gifts. Ten-year-old and I were both convinced that nine-year-old had also ceased to believe, but we decided to keep our doubts about his doubts to ourselves. So one can imagine how tickled I was to see little man's gangly legs wrapped around the legs of the dining room table, tongue stuck-out in concentration, writing to the dear Claus man on looseleaf paper with half-chewed pencil. So real, so true, so believing.
But what really moved me, was how ten-year-old sat quietly in the background, not jeering his little brother or even making the move to share a covert wink with me. He sat rather, and let his brother have his space and the ability to believe--just one last year.
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