Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

OK, let's start by getting the elephant in the room dealt with: you're not real. Look, sorry to say it, but you know it's true. You might rightfully then ask why I'm writing you a letter. That's a fair cop, and one I'm willing to answer - I guess the fact that I know that Dad (that being the heavenly one) knows my thoughts as I write them, and that I can put a part of myself down in writing in this way is kind of appealing. So yeah, OK - I'm kind of using you. But you're not real, so I say we're even.

That being said, can I tell you something? It's been hard this year when people have asked me what I want for Christmas. I mean sure, I could put some games or DVDs on a list, but the reason I haven't is that none of it really shines for me. Honestly, there's just something much deeper missing and I've been thinking about it a little. Just every day for close to the past two years, I'd say. And so here's my Christmas list, Saint Nick - you ready for this?

Someone to love, who will love me in return.

That's it. That's all I want. I mean, I probably should be a tiny bit more specific - we're talking love of the variety that is "until death do us part" here, which means toward someone of the opposite gender, and that is deep and romantic in nature. I'd hate to give you room to be cheap on this one, Santy. Because we all know you can be cheap when you want to. I mean seriously - what good is a remote controlled car with no batteries? Yes, I do remember.

Look, I was never made to be alone. Dad knows this better than anyone, and so I'm not sure why he's let things unfold this way, but here I am. It's just been such a long time since I've looked in someone's eyes and seen that subtle softening that comes from owning a special place in the heart of the person to whom those eyes belong. I desperately long to see that again. My heart holds an empty room; furnished with hopes and dreams that began years ago; waiting for someone for whom that place is home. It's been lived in before and wasn't treated very well, but I've spent a lot of time cleaning it up; repainting the walls and scrubbing the floors. Dad even helped me fix up some of the bits that were a problem before it was trashed. When I look at it now, it seems... ready. It's a home for someone. They just aren't there yet.

So big guy, I'm doing my bit. I'm meeting, and coffeeing and generally doing things no 32 year old man with two kids should have to worry about. I'm preening and cleaning and trying to change the things about myself I look at and think could be better. But I can't make this one happen on my own. So I guess what I'm doing is being the kid writing a letter to Santa, hoping that his Dad might read it. That maybe, just maybe, it won't be as hard... or as long... or as complicated as I think it has to be. That the story of my life will give inspiration to those who tread a similarly painful path, rather than serve as example of how lonely things can end up when relationships go tragically wrong.

Well, that's about it Santa. I'll leave the rest in your white-gloved hands. Oh - and I'll leave out some beer and chocolate on Christmas Eve, but if you haven't taken them by midnight I say they're fair game.

Merry Christmas,
Justin