Growing Up

It was Christmas Eve. We’d been to see a pantomime — Peter Pan or something — and were on the doorstep of our house. Dad was fumbling with the house keys. Mum pulled her coat tight against the cold and said, “Father Christmas will soon be on his way.”

Earlier that day I sprinkled reindeer dust over the lawn — a mix of oats and glitter — to guide the big red man to our house. The lawn sparkled in the orange streetlight. Eyes wide, I took it all in with wonder.

“Hurry up,” said Mum. “It’s freezing.”

“Hold on,” said Dad, struggling to find the keyhole in the dark.

The sky was full of stars, and the moon was a giant disc. The world felt more alive to me back then. Colours were deeper, brighter, more illuminating. Christmas really felt like Christmas.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of jingling bells rang out. Mum gasped.

“What?” I said. “What is it?”

“Look,” she said. “It’s Father Christmas.” She pointed at the sky.

I kid you not when I say I saw him. A silhouette flew under the stars and across the moon. A thousand volts of excitement burst through me. To this day I can still feel the chill that caught the back of my neck when I looked up at that impossible sight.

***

It wasn’t long after this that I discovered the truth about Father Christmas. The whole thing was made up — just an illusion. Damn.

“You don’t actually believe in him?” teased the other kids in the playground. “Haha. He still believes in Father Christmas!”

That day I came home from school, another step closer to adulthood.