The Year Santa Wore Mr. Bruno's Boots

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.