Here’s the good news: Santa is not feeling under the weather.
Really, there’s not much weather to be under. The Arctic Circle
is strangely warm, today, the air lingers around like a shiftless,
antiseptic winter doldrum in Florida. Santa, who reads the news,
is thinking of the polar bears. The woolly blighters
are not without their own agency for trouble;
back in the day they ate a stray elf or two. Now,
they’re hardly heard from. Santa misses the drama,
just as he misses the toys with the large springs,
Jacks in boxes, cup and ball. Granted, the PS5 is pretty cool.
Santa is fine, yes, and Covid free – though sometimes he worries
about the potential spread, unique to his position. A mask,
to him, is NBD, he’s worn every outfit known to man. But could he
catch it, anyway? Santa’s not so sure. Getting the vaccine,
as a supernatural being, was not a problem. AARP, NHS,
KGB, FBI – if you can spell it, Santa can get it, and the associated perks.
He gobbles them up like cookies. But they aren’t quite the same.
Santa watches his carbon footprint, there in the snow, of course.
But mostly he just makes toys. He’s aware – well aware –
there are bigger issues happening in the world today, grown up issues,
and he is, for all the twinkle in his eye, a guy who’s been around.
At times he, too, feels useless, a toy. But all he can really do
is a little something for the children. Cigarette out,
back to the workshop, where he’ll tinker for dear life,
his own, and the ones for whom, if he could, he’d build the world.