Lost Letter to the North Pole

Dear Santa,

                                        When I was five years old
                                        you forgot to show up. Under the
                                        unlit chimney the cookies remained
                                        uneaten, milk untouched.
                                        They didn’t have time to make you exist,

                                        so I grew up.

When I was ten years old
they brought home a new baby
in your name. I took care of him while
they worked. I wrote letters and burned them.
I hope the smoke carried my resentments
to the North Pole, even though I knew

that wasn’t where you lived.

                                        When I was fifteen years old,
                                        my kid brother waited for you under
                                   cheap paper tassels and sputtering lights. Once
                                        his shining excitement turned into
                                        soft snores, I finished your cookies by the
                                        cold window sill and dunked your
                                        disgusting milk into the toilet. You still
                                        owe me twenty three dollars and eighteen
                                        cents for the new truck you left him.

At twenty, I ditched old nests for big wide skies but,
under the brilliant, metropolitan lights, I was incredibly
alone. After my eighth call went to voice mail, I
gave up on them. I bought milk, brownies and your
favourite cookies. Maybe it was for the best you didn’t
show up. I wouldn’t want your old, fat, diabetic
ass to get a heart attack in my dorm.

 At twenty five, I’ve finally had adequate therapy and make enough money to sever
    ties. That year, I move in with an eccentric knitting fanatic who cries during
        bake-off shows and treats bookshops like a weed-parlour. We order
       a five-foot-tall tree. Under real pine and functional lights, I leave you
                  no cookies, no milk. I have made amends with
             you, but inside one of the boxes, an infinity scarf sits like
                                a long-awaiting
                         hug. The note says: From Santa.

                           Thank you for showing up.