There was a time when all the gifts beneath the tree
were “From Santa”
and with a beguiling specificity, were almost
all for me.
Bags of Civil War soldiers, their skin Blue or Gray
depending.
A red cabed, silver trailer truck, which I could
straddle and glide across the foyer floor.
A blue snow suit that fit for the whole winter
and tightly for the next one.
The pine scent and fallen needles were real,
like The Nights anticipation
and the rush into The Mornings miracles of
magically appearing gifts, brought, somehow,
to our eleventh floor apartment in The Bronx
by eight industrious reindeer and that jolly elf who held,
“the keys to all the doors on all the floors”
for there were neither chimneys on the roofs
nor fire places in the living rooms.

Until,

one demythologizing Christmas Morning,
there were packages under the tree
wrapped without elfish artistry
and the little gift cards read,
“To my wife, Genevieve, with love
from your husband, Ed, aka, Santa!”

AKA SANTA?

EDAKA SANTA?

Who was Edaka Santa?

We knew no one from Japan!!

My sister, Brenda,
older and far more experienced than me,
broke the news of the meaning of
AKA.
Oh! But not to worry!
Grandpa Mike,
Mommy and Daddy,
Aunt Gen and Uncle Claus
were (somehow) equal to the task
of sustaining the
familiar,familial flow of gifts,
sort of, kind-a-like, just like
Santa’s solitary sleigh.

Besides,
“it’s summer in Argentina, anyway,
and, there are Christmas lights
on palm trees in Bermuda.
So, get used to it
and stop crying!”

Well, I’m trying.