The Spirit of Santa: A Recovery Poem
In her fiery amber eyes,
in her mind flooded with highways and traffic and restlessness,
an unspoken, yet irrevocably present question
burned her bitter core.
If Santa was real,
where was he?
Where was this jolly, cookie-loving
bearded old magician?
Her life was saturated with emptiness.
She didn’t believe in the
twinkling of the stars at twilight,
or the power of serene silence,
or Santa Claus for that matter.
Her underlying disbelief
thrived as she shrank.
She became color-blind,
magic-blind, life-blind,
accepting only the black
and the white.
But forever wasn’t
inscribed in her future.
The emptiness that
clouded her life
gave way to
sunnier skies and
self-actualization.
Soon, she began to believe
in love after heartbreak,
in colored strokes after rain,
in purpose after anguish,
in life after death.
But her biggest discovery
came after recovery.
She stared out at the
vast, frosted world,
and her amber eyes opened.
Santa was metaphysical,
a spirit and powerful force,
found in every tiny act of
selflessness and gratitude
and catharsis.
Recovery was her Santa,
leaving wrapped gifts of
happiness and warmth
and acceptance and
roasted chestnuts.
Her Santa didn’t reward
without helpers, though.
To reap the benefits of
this altruistic spirit,
she became a reindeer
and an elf.
She worked harder
than she ever had before.
She wrapped presents
until her arms were sore.
But in the end,
her sincerest efforts
were reimbursed with
the greatest gifts of all.
Not money or
material, but
hope and life.
And if you ask
her now, if after
all these years she
still believes in magic,
she will undoubtedly
answer “of course.”