I forgot that the unraveling of belief
happens in layers,
like old wallpaper.
“Santa is real
but the reindeer don’t fly,
obviously,”
I hear my daughter tell her friend,
and then they laugh,
as though believing that would be crazy.
They agree that the sled is magic,
and the reindeer
are just there for company.
I watch my son
and I know he is tempted
to pull at their wobbly scraps of faith
and peel them further away.
But he says nothing,
and I give him a big hug,
thanking him for leaving the magic intact,
which everyone knows
is the hardest trick of all.