Sunday, December 6, 2015

Santa and the Stovepipe

When we moved from San Francisco to Forest Knolls, I was going on five, but there wasn't a fireplace in the Forest Knolls house, just a stovepipe. I knew a few things: I knew that Santa could never fit down the stovepipe, no matter how much magic there was in the world. Thus began my doubt that there was no Santa. And the beginning of my doubting most things adults said in general. My grannie (who raised me) didn't have much money so my Christmas gift really was underwear. But I did get a little girl's bike that first Christmas in Forest Knolls when the family dissolved and scattered, after the sale of our city house, after my grandfather died. But my cousin RIcky came down with polio, so they took my bike with tassles away on Christmas Day. I only rode it once. If there really was a Santa, he would've given Ricky his own bicycle. But he didn't. Ricky grew up, and graduated to a Harley, but lost control of that bike one morning early and never saw another Christmas again.

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