Family

The last Santa Christmas

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I think he’s rumbled us – our 8 year old super sleuth. His heart yearns for Santa but his head is full of doubts.

Its Christmas Day eve – I’m in the hallway delaying the dogs last pee. I shiver at the sight of frosty windscreens. I hear him quizzing upstairs, “it’s just you and mum isn’t it?” The dad’s reply is swift and sure but can it persuade the son?

The debunking of Santa is heartbreaking for every child. I was in the first year of Heavitree Middle – a smirking cad burst my festive bubble. I remember feeling gutted at first; it was wondrous while it lasted.

There’s a loss of innocence when the myth explodes. I ponder this as the dog tugs me across grass. Suddenly I feel sad – like the too blue lights twinkling from trees. The years go fast my boy is growing.

I wonder if I’ve savoured these Santa years enough. The joy of hanging stockings – of charting his sleigh across the globe. Guiltily I fear I haven’t. Too eager to get back to my book or the mindless scrolling of the phone.

In that moment I am sad at my complacency. But it’s no use – I’ve done my best. I can’t go back or freeze time. My boy with a quick mind and quicker feet won’t stop still.

He’s already straining at the reins. It is not my job to hold him fast. I am here to help him grow – to find himself. As much as we’d like to keep our children small they are preparing to fly from the off.

Losing Santa doesn’t mean magic is over. Even as adults we seek wonder – the tingle of anticipation. Whether waiting for a film to start or the first bars of a familiar song – nostalgia wraps us like a still warm bed.

But this is likely the last Santa Christmas. Our junior detective has sprung our con. The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy stand anxiously by. As we box the decs and stockings I shall shed a little tear. But we’ll always make room for magic – for a little sparkle turns a grey day bright.

The memory of touch

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I have a memory of a cool banister, under my hand. The ridges of wallpaper, at the top of the stair. The tiled sills, cool to touch. The good sofa, smooth with piped edges. The stones in the box, inlaid with shell. The click of the light – on / off.

I am awake-dreaming. I am recalling the memory of a red brick house which was once my home. This remembrance is not just in my head – its trace flows to the tips of my fingers.

What magic is this? How can I recall these nooks of a place, 12 years on? It seems our sense of touch or haptic memory is more enduring than first realised.

Studies suggest that, moments of touch – the memory of an object – it’s dimensions and texture, can last long after that point of contact.

This fascinates me. As humans we hold onto certain memories like a raft sometimes. Whilst remembrance can be selective, looking back can help us understand our past and face our futures.

In a year when we’ve been kept from loved ones, it makes sense for us to hark back. Covid has raised our present and past senses. At times, a flood of feeling has knocked us sideways. Maybe this is catharsis of sorts? Out of control, we’re anchored by memory points; our nostalgia soothes us.

Then I get to thinking, what of those fallen by dementia? The loss of memory in times like these is all the more cruel. The half familiar faces crowding at the door way, unable to come close.

Whilst true, haptic memory is more elusive in dementia patients, scientists have found peripheral tactile stimulation impacts visual and verbal memory. It seems that ‘touch’ remains a powerful, enriching sense.

So, my retracing of steps makes all the more sense right now. Whatever our state of health or mind, the anchors of memory can hold us.

I have a memory of a cool banister, under my hand. The ridges of wallpaper, at the top of the stair. I visit there from time to time, it reminds me of where I come from.