The Letter Line

 

                Greg held his letter to Santa with both mitten-ed hands.  The line to the mailbox for the North Pole was stretched around the corner.  Greg looked up at his father standing next to him in line. 

                “How long do you think it will be,” asked Greg.

                “Not too long,” said his father.

                 Greg sighed. He’d spent so much time on his letter to Santa that he felt like it was going to be late. He’d struggled over what to ask for. There had been so much sadness and misery in the world this year that he felt bad asking for the new Transformer or the remote-controlled Millennium Falcon. Although he really wanted both; but he also wanted Santa’s help to make the world a better place. He spent a long time making sure his letters were all written straight and he was clear in what he hoped Santa would bring. He was worried because it was only a few days before Christmas and he was only just mailing it now.  

                 “Dad,” asked Greg, “do you really think Santa will help? Do you think he’ll get my letter in time?”

                  Greg’s father looked down at his seven-year-old son and smiled. The puffball hat on Greg’s little head was cocked to the side and tufts of his shiny brown hair were poking out.

                 “I think Santa always wants to help. But I think he really wants us to try and help ourselves as best we can. And of course he’ll get your letter. The Post Office is very good at getting Santa his mail,” said Greg’s dad.

                “Oh,” said Greg.

                 The line took a few steps forward. Greg held his letter close to his jacketed chest. Greg saw a few kids from his school but he didn’t say hello. He’d only seen them through the computer screen really, and then only while wearing a mask while in class otherwise. He really didn’t know them well enough to say hi or run over to them. He wasn’t even really sure of some of their names.

                 “Dad, I know you said that Santa wants us to help ourselves, but if that’s so, why do we even have a Santa? And if he’s magic, how come he can’t do the magic to make the virus go away or stop all the bad men on TV,” asked Greg.

                 Greg’s dad leaned down towards Greg. He put a hand on Greg’s small shoulder and squatted next to his son.

                 “Santa’s magic only works when we help it work. We have to believe that he helps us to do the right things,” said Greg’s dad.

                “So… Santa is like Jesus,” asked Greg.

                 Greg’s dad smiled at his son.

                 “No Greg. Santa and Jesus are different. But the idea is the same I suppose. All either of them really wants is for there to be Peace on Earth and goodwill towards each other. So, they’re the same in that way, but they are very different. Santa is a saint… St. Nicholas, like St.  Peter or St. Michael. So he’s in the whole religious family, but he’s not Jesus,” said Greg’s dad.

                Greg scrunched his face up at his father and used his mitten to wipe his nose.

                 “I don’t understand,” said Greg, “but he’s magic. But the other saints aren’t magic? Jesus isn’t magic?”

                 “Santa Claus is a very different type of magic. He’s… whatever we believe him to be,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 “Oh,” said Greg. He sniffled a little and wiped his nose again.

                 “Are you too cold,” asked Greg’s Dad.

                Greg shook his head. He didn’t want to lose his spot in line.

                 “Okay, well let me know if you get cold. We’ll have to put your mask on when we get inside the post office and you don’t want your boogers all over your mask right,” kidded Greg’s Dad.

                 “I’m fine dad,” said Greg.

                 The line was moving up the steps at the post office very slowly. People with big boxes and carts with wrapped gifts. The dragon smoke in the cold air drifting up.  Greg looked at the faces of the people waiting. The faces were all so different; all different colors and shapes. He looked up at his dad’s bearded face. His Dad had rosy cheeks, just like he did, or that’s what his mother always said anyway. The thing Greg noticed though, although all the faces were different. they were all pretty much the same. He wondered about why everyone looked so the same but different. Kind of like how Santa and Jesus were kind of the same but different. Maybe people could be whatever we believed them to be.

                 “People are pretty much good, right,” asked Greg as he tugged slightly on his Father’s jacket.

                 Greg’s dad took a step forward up the first step and Greg followed.

                 “People are mostly good. Yes Greg. They are. At least I believe them to be. Sometimes I am disappointed in people, but in general and most of the time, people are really good,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 Greg thought about it for a moment. Scrunching his face and sniffing.

                 “Good. I’m glad people are mostly good. It’ll make Santa’s job easier,” said Greg.

                “I think it will my son,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 They got to the front door of the post office and both put on their masks. Greg was glad to be inside now. He felt like Santa would have his letter well before Christmas. He took his father’s hand and squeezed it.