dear santa,
Dear Santa,
How am I writing this to you? I learned you weren't real when I was 8. When I was a Brooklyn kid who caught her mom and aunt putting out presents to the sound of our jingle bells and my mom looked me in the face and said 'SANTA'S NOT REAL' as my aunt smacked her across the head. Okay. I'll bite, Santa. I want the people I love to be happy. I don't really want anything myself. If I want something I'm sure I'll get it along the way eventually. I want them to know hardship, because hardship makes for strong people, but I want them to be happy. I want them to be warm and to know they're loved and safe. I don't want much, Santa, I guess I just want all this pain to stop. Not for me, maybe, but sometimes I look at my mom or my aunt and I think I want it to stop for everybody else.
