Santa Claus Doesn't Exist

by sandshovel

In between wolfing down homemade fried potatoes and gulping hot coffee, my son told me he planned on joining the RCMP and that he's found God. With shining eyes he relayed to me the signs he swears are from the heavens and that now he knows the emptiness inside of himself can only be filled by a strong faith. The first sign was recently at an Alpha meeting through the church he grudging goes to with his wife and her family and at the dinner out of over a hundred people they could have sat next to, a retired RCMP officer and his wife join their table. The second sign was the following day parked at a restaurant with his co-worker and he saw what looked like his cat which ran away five years ago; his collar said Tiger, he looked like Tiger and then he did a remarkable thing: jumped up on the tire of a truck which read Tiger Paw. He figured the cat belonged to Breakaway Motel and I went the following day to investigate; the owner motioned to the hallway to check for myself if the cat was indeed our lost pet. Outside my car I dialed my son's cellphone number, waited for his voice and then told him the truth and I felt like I did when I revealed to him Santa Claus doesn't exist.


sandshovel, author of Blind Date, Part 2, loves the outdoors. If she's not running, biking or climbing a mountain, she's at the beach: pail and shovel in hand.