We never know who he really is.
I suppose he gets minimum wage to sit
There all day, bobbling babies who are tantruming
Against Santa, odd, bearded stranger;
Cozying brats with 90s attitudes and sticky fingers;
And patronizing tired parents insistent
On doing the Santa thing for their photo albums.
I had promised Jamie that this would be a last
Visit for Christmas. At nine, both she
And her sister had to be coaxed
To even go to the mall. Chelsea, by my side,
Still hesitated to be seen on the old
Man’s lap. His finger beckoned
To what remained of her childhood
So she followed her sister to the red perch,
Overcoming her budding adolescence.
This temporary worker in a hot, red suit
Sends my daughters back to me, all grown.
Maybe he knows he has given me this gift
He sees how old they are. He hears the soberness
Of adulthood creeping into their voices.
How else can he, perhaps a father too,
Know how much it will mean
To me ten years from now or even tomorrow?
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