Shit gets trippy when you play a record in reverse. Devil talk. Demonic messages worm their way into the dark recesses of your otherwise ordinary mind. Going back to front in a movie means the guy always loses his girl. There are no Hollywood endings, only confusion and loneliness.
Last week, my oldest daughter wrote and mailed what will very likely be her last letter to Santa. Well, she may pen another at the end of the year 2014 but it’ll be a pantomime effort, for the benefit of her little sister who still believes, as the Bear does right now, with the whole of her tiny bursting heart that the man in the red suit is real and that he is pure light and goodness unlike anything we can conceive of on this Earth.
The end of my Bear’s own personal magic Christmas story will crush her. That’s the deal we made. I’ve seen the closing credits. I’ve waited through them all, the names of the gaffer, the boom mic guy, and the assistant casting director, for an extra clip to release me with a smile but all that’s there is a sobbing girl curled up tightly in my arms.
I wrote all of that up there before I read this, and now I feel more prepared to have the Santa conversation sometime in 2014, 2015, 20never.
Merry Christmas. May the magic of the season never truly fade.
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