Missin' Santa

Stacks of newsprints, colored onion skin paper, loads of notepads, a box of Hope ballpens, a collection of JoyToy stationery, and a Silvereed portable typewriter are my memories of Christmas. These items helped me decide I should settle for a career in writing, and it all began one Christmas eve. That was when believing in the reality of Santa Claus is very much like believing in the Triune God. "You better be good. Else jolly old Saint Nick won't drop by to deliver your gifts," mother warned. "And be sure to clean up your bed and brush your teeth. Santa wants to see those gleaming enamels. Better be true to your teeth right now or someday they will be false to you," she again forewarned. But yeah, my mother is a prophetess of modern times!
This Santa Claus stuff amazed me, no doubt. There was this childish quarrel in school I got involved in, when my classmate in grade five, the "big mouth" Leilani told me Santa Claus is just fiction. She even added insult to injury by saying only parents or grandparents place apples in hanged stockings or put presents beneath the Christmas tree. I was fuming mad; such is tantamount to blasphemy! I almost gave her a good whipping for "deceiving" my classmates and I. Santa Claus is a real figure, I was convinced. He was as real as the rising of the sun in the east. No scientific explanation needed. "You refuse to believe because you've never been given a gift by the real Santa Claus," I hissed at her indignantly.
"Everyone at your house is making up stories because Santa Claus, never in his cold life, dropped by your place to give you a present. That's because you're wicked," my eyes were gleaming with fire, my chest pounding from the heat of childish arguments, my nerves curling like shrinking violets. "Only good girls receive gifts from Santa. That's what!" I turned to my classmates and found solace in their nods. "How will I ever meet Santa in person, Mama?" I asked her that night.
"He never comes when you are awake. He will only slip into your dreams and will read your thoughts and will pack your gifts…and ---" And I fell fast asleep without ever hearing the rest of the kilometric explanation.
"I think I should write him." I thought of telling him about Leilani, the big-nosed, chubby girl with the loudest mouth in the entire universe who at that time should be tried like Galileo so she would recant her statements. With jasmine-scented JoyToy stationery, I purchased out of a three-day savings, I poured my heart out and told Santa about my longing to see him, the need to feel his white beard and ivory crown, the touch of his red suit, the thump of his snowflakes-covered boots, and the joy of meeting Rudolph, his "sidekick reindeer".
Dear Santa, I began, I can never become a good girl all the days of my life. Most of the time, I am bad. I slip out of home economics classes because I hate my teacher and embroidery. I don't attend volleyball classes, too. And I can never become a good sister either because I am bossy, my Mama often tells me that. But I know you love me more than any other child in the neighborhood because I insist that you exist. I would readily bust anybody's lungs or snatch the living daylights out of any humbug who would twist that fact. Just drop by please, and leave the gift beneath the Christmas tree. I am badly in need of sparklers, crunchy apples, a nice dress for the Misa de Aguinaldo, and a typewriter for my homereading report in Language Arts. I think my sister has her own letter too, so please do check it out. Thank you. I hope to hug you and kiss you not only in my dreams.
I signed my name neatly, creased the stationery delicately and placed it under my pillow waiting for pick-up time, which almost took eternity. The typewriter did come along with a note signed by Santa himself! He just scribbled "hello" and "be good", almost in doctor's penmanship (too bad he is always in a hurry, he never learned the art of Peterson style of writing, I chuckled). He also said that God is cooking up great things in heaven for my sister and me because we proved to be "diligent in our tasks."
When my li'l brother was born, and I was already one hell of an inquisitive, young sleuth. I found out mother's gimmickries and figuratively caught her red hand dipping into the cookie jar. She was the one who "picked up the letter, placed the Silvereed beneath the Christmas tree, and scribbled the reply." She had to finally make a revelation. How soon, I said to myself, had I found out that I was firmly believing on something that only happens in the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen or The Grimm Brothers fairy tale books. There is no Santa Claus at all. Boy! Bucketful of tears rolled! There was no joy at all in cracking that mystery!
Last Friday, while mother celebrated her 55th birthday, I reminded her of her make-believe Kris Kringle. The thought still excites me, every time! I thought, all the while, that the magic had already died down. But it was only the adult component in me that refuses to crave on the idea. The child component still shouts how real Santa is.
So last night, I "scribbled" another note. But this time, through the mobile phone. "Ma, do me a favor please. Play Santa Claus again! And don't you ever leave again a code to crack."