Holding the Wonder Long Enough to Pass It On | PeonyMagazine

 

Crinkle, rustle, tap-tap. The floorboards squeak under small, eager feet. Outside, wind whistles through the bare branches, carrying the faint hum of carols from the neighbors’ houses. Inside, the warm scent of baked apples and cinnamon curls around every corner, making the air sticky with sweetness. I press my nose to the wooden table, heart racing. The twinkle of lights from a single strand catches in my eyes, bouncing like tiny stars across the walls. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m waiting. Waiting for a magic I don’t yet know is made by human hands.

My mother had given me a small poem that morning, folded neatly into my hand like a secret map. I barely understood it then, but I carried it everywhere, clutching it as if it might whisper the universe’s mysteries into my ear.

“May the lights in your heart never dim,

Keep the sparkle alive when it’s your turn to give.

Carry the joy like a secret gift,

And let it remind you what it means to live.”

I remember staring at the lines, tracing the letters with my finger, wondering what it meant to “give” magic. Years later, I find myself holding that same paper, but with a new understanding. My child’s laughter fills the room, the soft crinkle of wrapping paper, the clink of a bell from a toy. And suddenly, one line strikes me so sharply that it pierces through the noise:

“Keep the sparkle alive when it’s your turn to give.”

The room seems to be still around me. I realize that magic was never in the gifts themselves, it was in the quiet effort, the thoughtfulness, the moments we create without expecting applause. Watching my child’s eyes widen, seeing the pure delight in something so simple, I understand that this is the inheritance my mother left me: not things, but a way of making wonder real.

Being Santa isn’t about dressing up or buying lavish gifts. It’s about noticing the little things: the song that makes someone smile, the cookie that melts just right, the tiny note tucked into a hand-drawn card. It’s about creating space for delight even when life feels heavy. And in that space, I see my mother, a younger me, and now, my child — three generations connected by invisible strings of care, patience, and love.

More: https://peonymagazine.com/special-edition/holding-the-wonder/