March 17, 2018

Letters to Santa

Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer

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Dear Santa,

How is Rudolph doing? I hope good. Is it cold? It’s cold here, but I have a blanket and sweater. My Grammy made it for me. Does Rudolph have a Grammy? Who makes him sweaters? And cookies? And gives him hugs and kisses? The good kisses. Not the sloppy kind my doggie gives me. Do you have any pets, Santa? Oh yeah, the reindeer. Silly me. I made you cookies. The gooey kind. And milk! But my brother ate them. Stupid brother! And my kitty drank the milk. Stupid kitty! My daddy says to not say “stupid.” Don’t tell him, ok? Can you say that word? How old are you? I think three billion! Why don’t you have any kids?

My daddy says I need to write what I want. Ok. I want a pink pony with purple eyelashes and a blue tail. It needs to sing and fly and bake me cookies. Oh, my daddy says I can’t ask for that. Ok. I want a castle with servants and a pool full of jelly. And I want a house made out of candy. And I want a pony, but this time a normal one, but a real one! Please? Oh, my daddy says I need to ask for something you can actually get me so I won’t be disappointed. But, why can’t you give me all of this stuff? You are the greatest man alive! You have powers and a big belly and a jolly laugh and, um, stuff! Yeah. So, I want a rocket so I can go to the moon and eat moon cheese. I like cheese. Do you? What do you like to eat?

Oh, my daddy says I need to stop because I’m running out of paper. I love you Santa and Rudolph and Dancer and
Prancer and the other reindeer I don’t know the names of. Kisses. Oh, and sorry about the milk and cookies. Please still come. I have been good, I promise.

Love and hugs,

simply-wrapped presents beneath a Christmas tree

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Dear Santa,

I don’t really believe in you. I know I haven’t believed in you for years. Not at all, in fact. So why am I doing this? Why would I write you a letter? I don’t quite know to be honest. I’m not sure I could put it into words, at any rate. So what do I want? That’s the question, right? I don’t think I know anymore. Not to be lonely? Is that an answer? I can’t put my finger down on anything that doesn’t seem to have some sort of baggage and grief on it, but there’s a part of me kicking around that still wants to believe and to hope that something good is out there for my life.

When I was a kid, I guess that meant presents under a tree and a world outside covered in snow. A day of playing with Dad and then hot chocolate inside and watching your clothes get dry in front of the radiator. Then I got older and it changed into more complicated things like money and love and feeling important, and usually we don’t have any of those. 

Now you can’t give me what I’m looking for. But I guess if I write you this letter and I remember for a split second what it was like to be a child on Christmas Eve, then at least I won’t forget what it feels like to hope. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Merry Christmas,

Santa Claus in his sleigh flying past the moon over a neighborhood

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Dear Santa,

This year for Christmas, I do not want any gifts from you. I simply want my family to get together. I want them to enjoy themselves in the spirit of the Holidays. I want my siblings and my friends to love the gifts that I have purchased for them. I want you to fly on your big red sleigh through the cold and brisk air with a smile on your face. I want children and parents to scream your name from afar so that you can hear them and know that they are excited for the season of giving to truly begin.

I love you and all that you do for every child around the world. Thank you for changing my meaning of Christmas for the better. Good luck on your journey. I will be thinking of Rudolph and his shiny red nose and you with your big beard and full belly.

Lastly, please eat the cookies that I leave out for you, they are sugar cookies this year. Please make sure that Rudolph eats his carrots as well.

Much love and best regards,
Your Biggest Fan

small black puppy in a Christmas stocking

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Dear Santa,

What gives?

Year after year I wrote to you, asking for a puppy—a cute little black pupper with white paws so it looks like he’s wearing socks—and nothing. Every Christmas morning from the ages of 6 to 16, I would run downstairs, eagerly expecting the sight of a wagging tail and the sound of yipping, and instead, all I got were a bunch of Legos, a Playstation, a pair of Beats headphones, an iPhone, and a whole boat load of money.

Seriously, how hard is it to bring me a puppy? When we were 10, you brought my neighbor Jerry and his sister Cathy a kitten, so I think​ you could figure out a way to leave a puppy under my parent’s tree.

I’m just saying, Santa—if I don’t get a puppy this Christmas, then have fun eating stale cookies from the back of my locker and drinking soy milk next year.

Super Seriously,
His Name Could Be Socko, But You Playin’

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