It wasn’t that hard to piece together. I saw the publisher’s clearing house magazines open on the table, and the presents piling up under the tree. I was bursting with knowledge when my mother came to pick me up from Grandma Elsie’s house. “I know the truth about Santa Claus.” I told my mom while putting on my seat belt for the car ride home. “Oh,” she said, not sure of what my truth would be. “I know Grandma orders the presents and puts them under the tree.” My mom smiled, thinking I knew that all grandparents and parents did the same. But somehow she managed to contain her laughter when I pronounced, (not that Santa wasn’t real) but that I knew it was actually Grandma who was the real Santa Claus, for everyone. 

I wish I could tell you the depths of my pride. I knew Grandma Elsie was special, but this, this was really something. To think it was my Grandma who brought presents to the entire world. If I had begun to question the existence of an actual Santa Claus — the ability of one person to pull off such a feat, I can tell you that all doubts subsided. Because if anyone could do it, it would be Grandma Elsie. 

The roads were already covered in snow. My mom pulled the Chevy Impala into our driveway between the two drifts. I was staring out the picture windows. But for the snow illuminating the winter’s dark, I never would have seen it. But there it was — a streak of red. Santa was running across Van Dyke Road!  My mom heard my screams of delight, but came just after the blur. “What?” She said. “I saw Grandma running across the road!”

We never found out who actually donned the suit and ran on our snowy road. So I can’t completely rule out that it wasn’t Grandma Elsie. If you ask me when I stopped believing, I would have to tell you, not yet. 

I often wonder if my Grandma knows that I’m here. What my life is like now. But then I saw her yesterday in Marseille. I sat beside her in the magic of Christmas.