Plywood Santa maybe sold originally by Sears and Roebuck in catalog. It was delivered by mail and inside I’d circle the things for Santa to bring. Youthful wishlist.
This poem feels like someone holding a small piece of childhood wonder in their hands, knowing how delicate it is and how easily it fades.
There’s a quiet tenderness in the yearly ritual of lifting and wiring the plywood Santa, as if reviving a beloved figure who only breathes in December.
For a brief moment, he becomes almost alive not because he changes, but because we allow ourselves to believe again.
The Christmas‑morning traces crumbs, orange peel, an empty glass feel like tiny miracles, proof that magic once passed through the room.
The poem honours that fleeting childhood certainty that the world can be more than it is, even if only for one night.
But the shift afterward is painfully human: the magic dissolves, leaving behind a weathered figure exposed to rain, rust, and routine.
Santa becomes silent again, stripped of the glow we lent him, waiting for a season that always ends too soon.
The children move on without noticing the myth they’ve abandoned, their wonder already spent, their hunger satisfied.
There’s a soft ache in how quickly enchantment evaporates, how little remains sacred once the lights come down.
In the end, the poem becomes a meditation on how fiercely we try to keep wonder alive and how tenderly it slips away, year after year.
Plywood Santa maybe sold originally by Sears and Roebuck in catalog. It was delivered by mail and inside I’d circle the things for Santa to bring. Youthful wishlist.
We got the same catalogue, I suppose, just called Sears in Canada. I did the same as you!
And sometimes wishes came wrapped with Santa name. Best one was a red Ryder Daisy BB gun.
Lucky you! Those were the days!
Until I shot BB by hair trigger. Broke neighbors window. Didn’t get my rifle back until 21.
Ha ha! Guess it was cause of mischievous kids like you that BB guns disappeared from the toy stores! :-)
Went to sports stores Big 5. It was all a mistake. Not my fault. I thought it hit the roof.
This poem feels like someone holding a small piece of childhood wonder in their hands, knowing how delicate it is and how easily it fades.
There’s a quiet tenderness in the yearly ritual of lifting and wiring the plywood Santa, as if reviving a beloved figure who only breathes in December.
For a brief moment, he becomes almost alive not because he changes, but because we allow ourselves to believe again.
The Christmas‑morning traces crumbs, orange peel, an empty glass feel like tiny miracles, proof that magic once passed through the room.
The poem honours that fleeting childhood certainty that the world can be more than it is, even if only for one night.
But the shift afterward is painfully human: the magic dissolves, leaving behind a weathered figure exposed to rain, rust, and routine.
Santa becomes silent again, stripped of the glow we lent him, waiting for a season that always ends too soon.
The children move on without noticing the myth they’ve abandoned, their wonder already spent, their hunger satisfied.
There’s a soft ache in how quickly enchantment evaporates, how little remains sacred once the lights come down.
In the end, the poem becomes a meditation on how fiercely we try to keep wonder alive and how tenderly it slips away, year after year.
Thank you for your wonderful close reading, Adriao! You add another dimension to my own sense of the poem.
Happy Holidays! ☃️❄️
Merry Christmas to you, Dian!