The Tattered Edge, Or, The Dust Under the Bed

My niece, six, with eyes so wide,

asked if Santa was truly inside

the North Pole, or just a kind story.

My mouth went dry. My own small glory,

shattered, came back. That small, raw sting.

Eight years old. A plastic thing.

Under Mom and Dad's bed, where shadows lay.

I was looking for something. That day.

And there it was. A corner, torn.

A yellow price tag. A secret, born

of my own searching. On a toy.

'From Santa.' Oh, the bitter joy

of knowing. The dust motes danced.

My breath, it caught. My chance,

my belief, just frayed. A ragged edge.

Under the bed. A silent pledge

to never trust a magic man.

Just the dust. And the small, dark plan.