My sister and I Used to make our lists Together. Our lists for Santa. We anxiously awaited hearing the Sweet sound of sleigh bells And reindeer hooves, Which we heard in our imaginations When we gently set out our gingerbreads And sugar cookie cutouts And carrots for the reindeer. After a while, I discovered the brutal truth— Santa didn’t exist. Santa wasn’t a single man, But a man and woman Who were my parents. But I still pretended for my sister. With her undying optimism and faith. We still did the things we used to — And at times, it was better to pretend, Better to go back to the way things used to be. Better to imagine that a fat magical man lives in the North Pole. But my mom began to worry. My sister was getting too old, Too old to defend her belief to her peers. Too old. So one day, she broke it to her. Gently at first, And then realization dawned on my sister’s youthful face. Her round eyes welled with tears, My throat constricted, while my mom Rushed to comfort her. And then the tears spilled out endlessly In the form of Lost hope and faith.