Man In Red

         So far tonight I have played about seven games of Computer Backgammon, a dozen games of Solitaire--won three or four--and drank a weak cup of coffee. It’s cold. Outside, snow dances with the air current. Inside, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, and my wife and children are asleep, probably dreaming of something cute, like in the poem.
         My vision blurs and narrows. In the instant it takes for me to realize my eyes are closed, my vision dark, I stiffen and start tapping my index finger on my camera. This year I’ll get a picture. I look at the clock above the fireplace. Five to midnight. I stand up and pace the living room. My pace begins to slow. What harm could there be in just sitting down? What would it hurt to just rest my eyes for a minute?
         I shake the thoughts from my head. Looking out the window, I watch the snow begin to swirl in long columns announcing his presence. I hear a laugh that fills the night and comes from his soul. A dull thud and the rapid-fire sound of tapping on the roof has me running to my camera. I hear the steady beat of muffled crunching snow as he walks across my rooftop. My fingers trip over the film release button and my roll spills out of the camera. As I try to re-load another, a burst of cold air comes from the fireplace. A glass bell ornament shakes on our tree. I turn and see him, seven feet tall in a big red suit and white cotton beard. His cheeks grow red as he smiles.
         “Where the hell are my milk and cookies,” he says.