Dear Santa

This evening was spent adjusting the tree ("No... left. Back. Forward now. Is it leaning right?") and decorating it. We opened the storage boxes and pulled out old ornaments and centrepieces and twinkle lights. With them came the smells of last Christmas, the whos and wheres of each ornament, the fights over whose turn it is to put the star on the tree*.

The tree and house are decorated. The stockings have been dusted off. Santa's cookie plate is out. Everyone is excited for Christmas... but the jig is up. I am now eighteen, and my sister is fifteen and everyone knows not to look in the trunk of the car or the cupboard in the basement. Be this as it may, Santa still visits our house every year.

When I got home last week, my mom told me to write my letter to Santa. My sister and I sat down in front of the TV to hang out and write them with pencil crayons and coloured paper. She seemed to have no problem writing hers out, but I was at a loss. I'm at home, with my family. We have a beautiful real tree that makes the house smell wonderful (my favourite part). I got some nice new clothes while shopping with my mom at my birthday and I already have the assurance of one visit from my mom next semester. I whine about my cell phone, because I'm the product of a consumerist society, but really it's fine, and my vague dreams about dabbling in photography don't warrant spending a ton of money. The only things I want are things I have to work for myself: learning to knit beyond "scarf", getting an A on a paper, coming to terms with leaving the nest.

So Santa, all I've got for you this year is this: I like books? And world peace would be nice. PS: Check out Etsy.com and you can't go wrong.**





* MINE.
** Etsy.com is a dangerous thing, my friends. A girl can lose the better part of an evening staring at lovely handmade camis and cardigans.