Dear Santa,
You probably don’t remember me but we met in Memphis many decades ago. You were on stage at the bandstand downtown. Hundreds of children and parents snaked through the surrounding park waiting to reel off their wishlists to you. When I finally made it to the head of the line, you called me up by my name. That really scared me, or maybe it was awe, but even now that I think understand how you knew, I still want to believe in magic.
I know this is last minute and you’re probably busy packing up all the toys and getting the reindeer fed and watered, but maybe you could fit in a couple of my wishes.
Try as I may to suppress it, I have an impending sense of chaos about what’s around the corner in 2025. So could you help me, and maybe others feeling this, to divert it into positive action or creativity or simply hope?
For those kids and adults who never had the privilege of a day out to meet and tell you what they want, could you please take extra special care of them?
And for you, Santa, I trust that you and the crew will be able to fly over any walls or other barriers that we may put in your way.
I’ll make sure my fireplace flue is open tonight and would love to leave milk and cookies on the hearth, and maybe a brandy too, but I’m afraid my cat would beat you to it.
I’m Paula Garrett, dear Santa, in case you do remember me.
