Monday, December 20, 2010


Image borrowed from Bing


I got nine lists.
Tell-me -whatcha-want-for-Christmas-
and-we’ll see type lists. Form 21-A.
The ones from the children are masterful jobs
from brand-name beggars.
First, they put down things like,
“I want peace on earth.”
That’s so the old man will know
they have the proper attitude.
Next is an exhaustive annotation of raw lust and greed.
Items like “everything on page 19 of the JAFCO catalogue”
and “any money that’s left over.”
They want single-handedly
to bring about economic recovery
to the nation, and with my help.
My wife took the credit cards to the safe-deposit box
for the season.
Just to make sure I don’t go soft
and try to come through again.

I got a list, too.
It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I finally figured out
what I really want for Christmas.
“Windup mechanical toys that make noises
and go around and around.”
That’s it. Nobody believes me.
But that’s what I want.
Well, ok, that’s not quite the whole truth.
What I really want for Christmas
is delight and simplicity.
I want foolishness and fantasy and noise.
I want angels and miracles and wonder
and innocence and magic.
I now what I want for Christmas.
I want to be five years old again for an hour.
I want to laugh a lot and cry a lot.
I want to be held in someone’s arms
and rocked to exhausted sleep.

I know what I really want for Christmas .
I want my childhood back.

Nobody can give you that, I guess.
But you can take it if you want it and need it.
I know it doesn’t make sense -
but Christmas is not about sense, anyway.
Christmas is about a child - of long ago and far away.
And the child of now - in you and me -
waiting behind the door in our hearts.
Impractical, unrealistic, simple-minded,
outrageous, irrational, vulnerable to joy.
And absolutely necessary to Christmas.
Let it be.
Pass the toys.

Robert Fulghum


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