12.25.04

At Christmas, when I was a little girl, we stayed with my grandparents in northern New Jersey. Rutherford, New Jersey. The sidewalks were slate slabs that were buckled by tree roots. My mother's elementary school and the sledding hill were two blocks away.

My grandparents lived in a big old Queen Anne-style house built in 1904. The house smelled old and dusty and comforting. It had a library and a proper attic filled with clothing, toys, books, and wooden packing crates filled with family things. There was a pump organ in the foyer.

I used to sleep in the front bedroom, on a narrow bed that snugged against a window. There would be frost on the storm window many mornings, but I'd be warm under a pile of blankets.

One Christmas Eve, when I was on the cusp of belief/disbelief in Santa Claus, I laid in that bed. Half-asleep, I heard sleigh bells ring. Not surprising, Grandpa had a set hanging from a nail in the arch between the dining room and the parlour, and he'd ring them at the slightest provocation. The sound still had magic.

I peered out the window and saw, walking down the middle of the street, Santa Claus carrying a large, empty sack.

It was a gift, for a few more minutes, of childhood.

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