Don't Ask

A narrative poem about honesty and her gentler cousin, discretion

Rosa is very excited about her festive bow

My son and daughter are back home again from college and we’re settling in for a new kind of holiday with two grown kids. I suppose I miss things about the Christmases of their childhoods - the wonder, the excitement, the magic. But I don’t miss feeling so completely on the hook for making the wonder, excitement, and magic happen. It’s a lot. When both my kids were beyond the Santa myth I found it easier to feel enthusiastic about the holiday. So many fewer chances to screw things up!

Now, in this lovely window of their college years while they are still coming home for holidays but seeing things with more adults eyes, I’m feeling even more relaxed. They are happy to be here, grateful for good food, sleeping in, and thoughtful gifts. They are more in the moment, with so many fewer expectations. The kids who once unintentionally spurred me to work myself to exhaustion to make Christmas “special” are now the ones helping me see a simpler, lighter way to celebrate. We’ve had a lot of wonderful times together over the years, but Christmas with grown kids is particularly sweet to me, more relaxed, sillier, fewer rules.

Sometimes it takes Graham a little longer to get into the holiday spirit

The following is a narrative poem about a turning point for my daughter, Santa Claus, and me that happened years ago. I hope you enjoy it. Wishing you all a holiday season with the right ratio of celebration to rest. All the best.

Don’t Ask

I remember the day you came to my room 
and asked without preamble, Is Santa Claus real?

You were old enough to know. Yet your brother 
had protected you so valiantly from the truth. His devotion
to quest worthy of King Arthur himself. 

He told you beautiful lies, spun webs of wonder. This child 
who hated the stage performed for you each year 
so you could continue to believe. 

I suspect his own disillusionment was so gradual and so terrible
that there was comfort even in pretending to believe. In that way 
it might have been a gift for you both.

But now here we were, a moment of your choosing, a point on
the calendar wholly removed from all thought of Christmas, facing
a precipice together, a hinge that could only swing one way.

Determination painted over doubt, I could imagine you deciding 
to get it over with. Jumping up from the floor strewn with toys. 
Marching down the hall, ready to rip off the band-aid.

I was stretched out on my bed with a book. I didn’t sit up, 
but laid the book on my stomach and looked at you over my toes.
I’ll answer that question, love. But can I give you a bit of advice first?

You gave a single nod of your stubborn chin. Make sure 
when you ask a question that you really want to hear the answer.
You looked into my eyes for a long moment.

I held my breath, and I believe you held yours, too. You gave 
one more nod, then turned and walked out of the room.
I sighed so, so quietly and retreated to my book.

Do you remember that as clearly as I do? I don’t believe I had ever
given that advice, or heard it from anyone else, before that day. 
Maybe I was wrong, but in that moment I wanted to offer you a way out. 

Not a way back to the innocence of not knowing, 
but a way to put that knowledge in a box and close the lid for while longer.
I was giving myself a way out, too. 

A way to avoid saying the words that would fracture
your childhood, leave a slivered crack in something 
that had been smooth and whole.

And how many times since then have I taken my own advice?
Thought better of asking a risky question of you, your brother. 
Curiosity, kitten, doesn’t mean you need to know.

Sometimes it’s cowardly, this reticence. But sometimes it’s kindness. 
We maintain with care a version of ourselves, of our world, for each other. 
Artifice, perhaps, but also essence. A self we want to be, even if we aren’t.

A world we want to see, even if it isn’t. It is not a lie when it’s true. 
And there is such a thing as too much honesty. At times it’s better not to know, 
even if you really do know, if you know what I mean.