Uncontaminated Joy

And so, the media crowed last night
there is no Santa Claus, the child I had seated
beside me, bursting forth with questions
I could not even bring myself to answer.
To raise a child is a full time job,
but to babysit is just as difficult,
for in those few hours calamity could strike,
and any actions I dare address
might well reverberate for durations
that cannot even be conceived.
Attempting to put a child to rest,
whose arms are flailing wildly, as pronounced
tears erupt from the corners of their eyes,
is no easy chore to manage,
and no matter the economic compensation
I am afforded for my time spent in the company
of this three foot something human,
the phone calls from parents,
bereft by their child’s fatal agony
over the realization their hero never did exist,
is certainly not worth anything I acquired.
The Christmas trees this child once helped put up
have now been effortlessly torn down,
the baubles and stars smashing upon the kitchen tiles,
alongside crystalline tears. Although
is is every child’s rite of passage to eventually
be revealed the truth, when you are four years old
and still so innocent, the allowance of such uncontaminated
joy, should be one such treasure
that is not easily stolen.

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