On Christmas Eve the old man said to himself, I must remember to leave milk and cookies out tonight for Santa and his elf. It had worked when his son was five. And I should not light a fire so the chimney will be clear and also leave the tree lights on. He hoped his letter to Santa had not been rejected because of his age. Maybe it had slipped through. Maybe his name had not been deleted from the Good list from long ago. He has to come, he thought. I didn’t ask for much. Just a few more years to see presents opened under the Christmas lights, the smile of my son with his eyes still looking into mine, both of us with the joy of life. He went to bed early, just in case, and dreamed of snow.
