seeing and believing

In a bustling mall, between rows of bright stores filled with shoppers and thieves, there is built a house that looks like gingerbread. The roof is painted with vanilla frosting snow. The front door dusted with sugar and opened to a line of patient mothers, tolerant fathers and the children who tug at their coats. In this house with the cupcake chimney and candy cane window sills, there is a man in a red suit whom the children are told is Santa. Some of the older children have met him before, in years prior, at different, faraway malls. They suspect he may not be the same man; the first crystals of skepticism forming in their spinal fluid. Others, mainly the younger ones, are introduced to him for the first time. They are shy. They hold their breath as they climb into the velour lap of proof. They feel special in their holiday clothes. Here, in this singular line, the hopeful separate from the jaded. Some merely see a man with a beard. Some believe.

Elsewhere in the same mall, I sit across from my friend in a crowded restaurant as the heat lamps overhead radiate onto specific parts of our faces. I sip peppermint tea. I order soup. He asks if I'm excited for Christmas and I hear "Are you sad for Christmas?" He pulls slices of pizza from his plate. We talk of gifts and work. We eavesdrop on conversations. We speak of his girlfriend and he tells me how much he loves her. His eyes sparkle as he says her name. I listen and watch and sip and spoon and as the meal progresses, in front of me appears the reason why I believe. Right before my eyes is living, laughing proof that a man can love a woman so much that she incapable of doing wrong. He sits before me, pizza-eating evidence that a man can be honored to have a woman's affection. It exists and I keep the faith in my heart warmed simply by having this friend tell me his stories. I see a man in love. I believe in their future. Seeing isn't always believing. Believing is believing.