Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I can't believe this is it. My last year writing you as a child. My last time writing you from under my parent's roof. This is why I write you this letter. Is it okay if I still want to believe in you? Is it okay that I don't want this to be my last letter I ever write to the jolly man in a red suit who will slither down my chimney on Christmas Eve? Over the last year, I have been forced to do a lot of growing up. In the past, there was always someone there who could ultimately tell me the right answer, even if I guessed wrong. Now, I am facing decisions that are mine and mine alone, and no one out there has the definitive answer. No one is there to hold my hand and tell me what to do.
   As I face adulthood, and the difficult decisions I have ahead of me, is it okay if I still let sugarplum fairies perform a delicate ballet across my dreams? Is it okay for me to fantasize about what your elves are cooking up for me in your workshop? Is it okay if I jump every time I hear a clatter on Christmas Eve, because I know for sure that it's Rudolph landing on my roof? Is it okay that I still leave you cookies and milk to aid your tiring journey across the world?
   Santa, all I want for Christmas is to never stop believing. I want to always have a conviction that there is a certain magic that the holiday season brings upon us all. I never want to give up on the notion that singing the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas will put a smile on anyone's face. I never want to stop believing in all of the good in the world. Even when we're forced to face so much bad at some times, I never want to stop believing in the fantasy, the excitement, the giddyness, and the pure absolute magic of Christmas. It's a time when friends feel a little friendlier, and families become a little closer, and the streets become a little brighter, and our hears become a little warmer. Next year, I may no longer be a child, but please, never let me stop believing.

Love,

Hanna