by Amy K. Rowland
My sisters and I were pretty good kids
so we were always eager for
Christmas to come back. In
anticipation, we would sing carols
year-round, much to the annoyance
of everyone who knew us.
Even recently, though so much older,
we woke up Sara’s thirty-year-old
boyfriend by belting out Deck the Halls
at 3 am on a long car ride
home from the beach. He was pissed.
We believed in Santa really late, even
after our parents told us the truth.
Well, we reasoned, maybe they were
lying still. Maybe they don’t really want
us to move in with him like we planned.
We didn’t care how old and fat he was.
He always brought us better gifts.
Later, we accepted they weren’t lying,
and that hurt us a little, but we had to
grow up. We couldn’t believe in Jesus or
Frankenstein anymore, so it was
only fair to sacrifice Santa. And
December has grown a little dim.
But there is still something about
standing outside my parents’ house
in the darkness of Christmas Eve
that gives me some hope for faith.
Through the pines in the backyard
I see stars.
It is silent, and I remember the
three of us sitting in the living room
after my parents decorated
the tree, squinting our eyes
at so many lights.