I remember the Christmas when I
was six, the air sticky with pine.
My grandmother\'s house smelled of
gingerbread and the hum of laughter.
Santa showed up, his suit bright,
red as the ornaments on her tree.
He handed gifts with a hand that
looked like Mr. Bruno\'s, calloused strong.
His laugh wasn\'t deep enough, I
thought. His boots carried mud, not
magic. He left, jingling a fake
bell, and I tugged at my mom\'s
arm, asked her softly, \"Why is
Mr. Bruno dressed as Santa tonight?\"
She froze, then smiled like she\'d
practiced in a mirror. \"Maybe, he
was helping,\" she lied, half-hearted.
Even then, my eyes caught cracks
in stories told too quickly, deeply.