When Belief Fades

Her eyes wide, asking me softly,

"Do you still believe in Santa?"

I felt the rush of memory,

like wrapping paper torn too fast.

The attic felt heavy with secrets,

a cracked ornament hid half in shadows—

every twinkle now dulled,

reminded me of magic,

easy to lose like breath on glass.

I thought of late nights,

a whisper of reindeer,

a careful placing of gifts,

my heart heavy with want,

each thought like a flickering light.

I smiled, unsure if I could let her know—

maybe believing is just

a child’s way of holding onto the day,

a night light in the dark,

the moment innocence slips,

a soft ache of quiet letting go.