Second Childhood Letter to Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

I write not to ask for something but to tell you
I cherish you more than ever and to thank you for the doll
you brought me so long ago when I was a child and knew
you were real.  Though the Great Depression was tolling its bell
in that gloomy time – still, you found a way to give
me the dearest doll in the world with eyes that close and open,
and I’ve loved her through all we’ve endured and lived.
O, her toes, fingers and face are worn, eyelashes gone, body misshapen
but that’s naught measured by what we’ve shared as richer/poorer.
Isn’t that what real mothers do?  What Mary did in her caring
for the real living babe she was given to nurture and adore
that he might show us how to love in our compassion of bearing
the highest and lowest of others and, thus, become wholly real.
What a long time it takes to become real - as Toy Rabbit learned –
his velveteen worn thin – as the self learns in its longing to become soul.
Ah, world gives what it gives, and grace is more than can be earned
and my life unfolds as a story of what I did and did not do
while my dolly waits in her chair, nightcap tied under her chin
eyes fully open, waiting Dear Santa, as I wait too
for your coming again and again:
A vermillion star like a comet across the heavens when all else is still:
A magical hope entering rooms where love comes alive and joy is real.

Margie