Him

When I was little, he told me that the tops of the mountains were blue.  They were actually blue.  Not the kind of blue that meant it was cold, like in our books from when we were children.  Just this odd kind of opalescent blue that only showed itself in the moonlight.  And always, without fail, after I had gone to bed.

Maybe children couldn't see it, I thought.

Maybe I was color blind.

Maybe my required bed time wouldn't afford us the opportunity to meet each other.

It was somewhere in between these.  I was smart enough to know that.  But it reminded me of how I knew, even at a very young age, that he was Santa.

And even then, I snuggled up in my bed in the attic, huddled under a slanted roof and a down comforter, thinking I was lucky to have him and intelligent enough to know it was just fine to hold out hope that Santa really was the winter specter we wanted him to be.

It felt good even.

Especially just as my eyelids fell heavy on my face, and on my heart, and I went fast asleep smiling about how I would see him in the morning.