December 2026
Dear Mia,
Greetings from the North Pole, where the snow tonight is the deep, squeaky kind that swallows sleigh runners up to the axle. The workshop windows are fogged from the cocoa pots inside, and through that fog you can see elves hurrying past with armfuls of ribbon. It’s the best kind of evening for writing a letter.
I asked Mrs. Claus what to write to you this year. She said to keep it simple: you are wonderful, and everybody knows it. Every December I look through my long list, and this year your name has a bright little star beside it. It’s staying there, too. Watching you grow this year has been the best show of the season. Even the elves stop to peek at my list. Somehow you make ordinary days feel like small celebrations. Nobody teaches that; it’s a talent.
Merry Christmas. The toys matter less than you’d think; what I hope for you is a slow morning, a full table, and the feeling of being exactly where you belong.
P.S. If you hear sleigh bells in a song this week and think of me, it works both ways. I hear jingles in everything in December. The elves say it is a condition.