He sets the list down slowly by the fire,
as if it weighs more than it looks like it should.
Outside, the reindeer shift their hooves -
“You’d think,” he says, not looking up,
“it’s the cold. Or time. Or fitting
the impossible into one long night.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite stay.
“The hardest thing,” he says,
“is knowing I arrive at the brightest hour
and still can’t stay till morning.”
He pokes the fire, watches sparks rise
like wishes that forgot where they were headed.
“I see houses full of light
and houses dark on purpose.
I see tables with empty chairs
set anyway.”
He pauses, because even practiced voices
need rest.
“Everyone believes Christmas is about coming,
but for me it’s mostly leaving.
I carry joy in, yes -
but I carry longing out.”
The fire settles. The list remains unfinished.
“And the hardest part,” he says finally,
“is that I must love the world
without knocking on the door,
without being asked to sit.”
He looks at the chair nearest the fire,
as if imagining it offered.
“If I were asked,” he says, quietly,
“I wouldn’t speak of magic.
I wouldn’t warn or instruct.
I’d just say this:
Look -
what you’re waiting for
is already here.
You are already enough,
and the world is still full
of gifts.”
Outside, the reindeer stop moving.
The night is ready.
He stands, straightens his coat,
and becomes legend again,
leaving behind the quiet truth
that even miracles are lonely,
and that staying,
when it’s offered,
is the bravest gift of all.
GBS jr
2024
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