road dust: dear santa

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grief group time, for me friend

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›bio: vera

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Dearest Darling Santa,

I hope this request finds you bright and cheerful, resting before a glowing fire with your hand on Rudolph's head and the elves gathered around with bowls of hot buttered popcorn and hot-shot toddies.

I heard, in disbelief, that you were flying over my chimney again this Christmas (and coming down it!), in spite of the badassedness which has emanated from my aura since last February; and, in spite of how I inflicted my loser self on others this past year, and even forgot to declare the coinage I dug from under the Town Fir on my tax return.

Yet, you do remember, Santa, how I flung down my own child to pick up that old man's prosthetic leg when it parted company from him, don't you? You also took note, I hope, of how many times I froze traffic in its tracks by flapping my hands frantically, so little crippled flickers could safely cross the street. Why, just last night, I put money--Franklins!!--into my neighbors' mail slots with notes signed, "Christmas Blessings From An Anonymous Fallen Angel."

It's not my fault, Santa, that I found the money blowing in the gutter first, before Fred next door claimed it was his Christmas Club fund. He was crying because he has four kids...but, what could I do at that point? I didn't want to be a failure anymore, known for bearing bad fruit, so I gave all of the money to my closest dearest neighbors--freaking them out maybe, but encouraging their fledgling belief in real angels to foster. Not to worry, though, Fred got one too.

I imagine you fighting the good fight at the North Pole, your cheeks glossy red with sweat, your lips full and red too, with spittle spraying the little elves' faces as they bustle to polish the sleigh, and how those reindeer prance and pace--just so you can come to America with gifts for good little girls and boys, and grace for those who have been bad, which we all knew you had. You are a good Santa, and that's why we love you.

What I want to know this fine Christmas, is what finery have you planned to deliver to my former family, to keep them from floundering in their despair over yours truly? Will you bring them peace to invade the fortress of their minds? Will you deliver cash and overcome their foul aversion to hard cold payoff money? Or, will you bless them with newfound joy in kinship, though they are not fond of fraternity?

I am not going to ask about anything for me, oh-ho-ho no. I'm writing specifically to remind you that I exist and request your felicitations for my sweet family. Each family member has Christmas-carded me with flogging repetition this December, and while never admitting flaw or failure of their own, they say their year has been--well, fantastically difficult, because they have suffered my alleged fake fabrications and endured my noxious faults. While they profess strong affinity for self-righteousness, they pointed out that I have resisted all of their finest urgings to turn myself around; no, instead I am accused of fervently and furiously pursuing patterns of old. I have even added new and fearful acts--with flair, but that is beside the point.

In closing, Santa, all familial faith in me is currently destroyed because I (supposedly) violated rules and codes of conduct established long ago. Frankly, they-the Family--say I suck. If you could find it in your heart to reverse this dire fait accompli, I'd be eternally grateful. what you can...and next year if I am really, really good, please consider designing and delivering to me a faux family, complete with batteries.

Regards with trepidaton,


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