As a little kid, I firmly believed in Santa. And with good reason: after each Christmas Eve dinner, he appeared in our family room. Grandma would open the door, and in he'd jingle.
Eyes: twinkling. Dimples: merry. Cheeks: rosy. Face: broad. Belly: round. Toys: bundled. It all checked out. He spoke not a word, but gave gifts to my gleeful little sisters and me, then waved and left the way he came, through the door to the garage.
When I was 6, I asked if I could help him hand things out. As he bent down, my eyes caught his, and he let out the quietest of chuckles.
I knew that laugh. I knew those eyes. I ran to my mom, whispering, "I think Santa is Granddad!". She hugged me close and said, "Now you know how much your grandfather loves you. Can you help him make it fun for the little kids?". I nodded.
Within a few years the girls made their own discoveries, and eventually Granddad retired the suit and beard. I learned that he'd had it for decades. With his natural Santa-without-a-beard look, he'd been a mainstay at schools and parties around town. A quiet and shy man whom I never heard raise his voice, he must have loved being able to perform that magical joy-bringing for those groups, and for his own family, in his own way.
So I never "lost" my belief in Santa. I found a way to understand him as a way of giving - of presents, sure, but mostly of yourself.
The Christmas when TheKid was 3, she loved playing Santa over and over. She'd tell us to lie down and "sleep", then she'd wrap little things in tissues, sneak them under the tree, and "wake" us up. Her jumping and clapping joy while we unwrapped the spoons, cat toys, and odd socks was delightful. She never met my grandfather, but I know those eyes.
