Brian MacDonald
and Paula Kaiman

nyc glow

Brian MacDonald

Letter to Santa
By Paula Kaiman
Inspiration piece

Dear Santa,

Thanks so much for the wonderful surprise you left last night (I’ll never forget it)!

We returned home late—yet safe and sound—arriving just before twelve and in perfect synchronicity with the bare, beginning glimmer of the first crystalline snowfall of the season. Everything was aglow, suspended in the finest diamond dust ever. I wish you could have seen it, too (but then, of course, I know you did)!

En route, we toured our own small village, wide-eyed as first-time visitors just pulling in from out of town. The abandoned late night streets seemed as if they had been carefully laid out—with breath held waiting—by some invisible schemer for the sole purpose of welcoming us back home (I knew right away it was you). Richly lit store windows, flush with holiday trim, glimmered like stained glass and precious metal. The night flowed soft as folds of cloth.

Three parked cars and one moonlight window dresser were the only signs of human life (or was that you, by chance—working more of your secret, late night wonders?). Everything was so peaceful. The only sound, a barely-there, icy iridescence—pirouetting in the night—playing whisper-music on the air.

We lowered the windows and stretched our necks outward, just to feel it dance upon our cheeks. All that hovering silver! I wish I could have spent eternity in your midnight snowglobe.

Kudos, Wizard-Saint (you stole my heart again)! Still, as I recall those tip-toed twinklings, it seems a certain truth that the inherent magic was not so much in sparks of color, light, or sound—but in the black and silent, velvet-laden ether in between.

But you already knew I’d adore that, didn’t you, Old Dear?

With all my love (as always),

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