The Faith of a Child

On the Christmas Eve when I was seven,

after the excitement had faded

into murmured breaths and

turn-tossed tangles of blankets and legs,

I awoke and remembered in a moment

of chest-squeezing panic

that I had neglected to ask Santa for

a pad of paper and colored pencils.

It was a by-the-way request

I had intended to include

along with the toys on my list.

But instead, it fell by the wayside.

Desired, but not so intensely that it stayed put

in my young mind when I was

confronted with the task of

reciting my hopes and dreams

to the white-bearded man at the mall,

who I knew to have the power to make me happy.

A pad of paper and colored pencils.

Simple, to be sure. No big deal, really.

An easy gift for Santa to come by.

So I did what any other church-going

seven-year old with a very basic

understanding of making requests

to powerful beings would do.

I prayed to Santa to bring me

A pad of paper and colored pencils.

Satisfied, I rolled over with a bit of covers

clutched in my hand, which my sister

promptly yanked back into its proper place,

never quickening her steady breaths,

and I went back to sleep, so sure my

prayer to Santa would be answered

with a pad of paper and colored pencils

poking out of the top of my stocking

come waking time.

I smile now at my childhood simplicity.

But still, I pray.

And that pad of paper and colored pencils

remain elusive as they were that

decades-ago Christmas morn.