Waiting for Santa
Waiting for Santa
The child sits
Balanced on the window sill
Tendrils of her wispy hair squashed on the glass
Nose cold and red pressed hard against it
Eyes scanning the frosted rooftops
Waiting.
“He won’t come while you’re awake,” Mummy says kindly
Lifting the small chilled form
Back to the warmth of the blankets
“I want to see Santa” sleepy now
A gentle hand strokes her wayward hair
She closes her eyes
Waiting.
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