The Christmas I Killed Santa (for Neville…)

[Stephen Whiteside]

I knew I should be sleeping, but I had a point to prove.
I knew the hour had come that Santa's sleigh was on the move.
I hid beside the fireplace. For sure he'd soon arrive,
And then I'd put my clever planning into overdrive.

He rattled down the chimney in a cloud of dust and ash.
I ran out from my hiding place to face him in a flash.
"I know you don't exist!" I roared, and stared him in the eye.
Horror turned to panic, and the man began to cry.

I stood before him quite unmoved. This time, I'd not be conned.
He couldn't wriggle free with fancy trick or magic wand.
He stared me in the eye as though his body had been speared,
And then he shrank and shrank until, at last, he disappeared.

I puffed my little chest with pride, the knowledge I had won.
I went to bed and slept well, very pleased with what I'd done.
Empty-headed fantasies no longer would prevail.
I'd run my life on logic now, and could not ever fail.

I woke to Daddy's anguished cry. "Dear God! It can't be true!
The stockings all stand empty! I'd have sworn last night he flew
With his sleigh and all his reindeer up above our neighbourhood,
And I wrote a letter long ago to tell him you'd been good!"

Self-righteousness still fed me. "I destroyed him," I declared.
"I'm shaking free of superstition. Why should he be spared?
You know he's just a fantasy dreamed up for little kids.
I'm cleansing past and present, and I'll knock back future bids."

Dad stared at me speechless. Then he whispered in a croak,
"Do you know what you have done, my boy? This is no idle joke."
He shook his head in disbelief, and slowly limped away.
"Well, you'll not find any presents here this cheerless Christmas Day."

Suddenly, my victory felt sour. My bubble burst.
(What a shame the aftermath could not have been rehearsed.)
"But…but…" I vainly pleaded, but I saw it was too late.
I saw Dad stagger down the path, and out the garden gate.

His gait was quite unsteady. It was clear he'd had a shock.
It hurt to see such suffering. He'd always been my rock.
I quickly sprinted after him. "Come back! Come back, Dad, please!"
If I hadn't been behind him, I'd have begged upon my knees.

I don't know what his thinking was. He walked across the road,
And clearly didn't see that lorry with its heavy load.
The Christmas I killed Santa (and had briefly felt so glad,
And smug and proud in victory), I also killed my Dad.

I don't know what to make of it. I cannot think it through.
What is real and what is not? I don't what is true.
It seems, at times, the things I think are real are puffs of smoke,
While fantasies become more firm the harder that I poke.

Santa, if your spirit somehow hovers out there still,
Please come back next Christmas. I'll behave, I swear I will.
And if you do, you know that I'd be extra special glad,
If for my present next year you could bring me back my Dad.

© Stephen Whiteside 17.12.2014

[Heather]

Aaah, the silly season is truly upon us. Neville, Neville see what you've done!

You've been a veery naughty boy Stephen!

Heather -sipping on a glass of whine!

[Neville Briggs]

There's a message there I guess, I'm not sure what it is.

[Stephen Whiteside]

Same.

[r.magnay]

..what have you got to whine about Heather, you didn't kill Santa....