My Santa Claus

He Was My “Santa Claus”

Somewhere deep inside of me
There’s a special memory,
Of my father dressed as Santa
Standing by the Christmas tree.

It was our custom Christmas Eve
That Santa would appear;
Our basement had both oats and grain
To feed his nine reindeer.

My father always dressed down there,
I never checked it out;
Mom told me reindeer needed time
To learn their Christmas route.

Dad headed out the back door,
As we prepared for fun;
Sleigh bells could be heard outside,
We knew that he had come.

My mom would open up the screen
And Santa would come in,
With pillows piled inside his suit
And whiskers on his chin.

I wondered how he knew which gift
Was for a girl or boy?
Strange, also, were my parents’ names
Which appeared upon each toy.

We all sang “Jingle Bells” off key,
I thanked old Santa Claus
For showing up again this year;
He never did get lost.

I didn’t know that Dad was him,
Pop had a taller frame,
He couldn’t be that fat, short guy
Who always knew my name.

I was sixteen when Daddy died,
He left me such good thoughts
Of love and sharing of himself-
He was my “Santa Claus”. . .

Joyce Hodges