A little over a decade ago, during the transition from fall to winter, we found a little man sitting in our cabinet. He wore a deep red onesie, and sported a red cap of the same hue, accessorized with white cotton on its top and at its base. It had big eyes, a small nose, and a grin, and though it tried to convey a look of animated joy, its static expression prevented it from ever feeling like anything more than a soulless husk made to entice children to buy its merchandise. 

And though its hollow shell alone inspired little “Christmas spirit” my parents did their best to convey that joy that it was intended to. And it worked, to some degree, as though my parents had characterized it as “Santa’s messenger” and “magical,” its only real use was to get us to stay out of trouble. So though my parents sought to build a persona of a magical creature here to bring us joy, the only thing it really brought was fear.

I’ve always been a skeptic of Santa and his little goons, though for my brother’s sake I kept quiet. I let them live their little lie. Alas, it didn’t matter, as the mirage was shattered once we had seen our parents breaking the cardinal Christmas rule by touching the elf, therefore removing its magic. It only went downhill from there (literally), as it had later fallen into the trash can from its lofty throne, presumably to be burned at a landfill with its other plastic brethren. My parents tried to replace it later, saying it had somehow come back from its burning tomb, but we all knew the truth.

Photo by erin mckenna on Unsplash