Ver. One
We were on our way
to Cooperstown.
I sat in the back,
sulking. More baseball.
But up the road,
through the rolling green,
on the left--
the car slowed
and Dad pulled over
to look at antiques.
I remember wood,
gray with age.
Farm equipment.
And an old man--
Tall, suspenders,
gray with ruddy cheeks.
Whispering to my brother,
"Nick, look, it's Santa!"
And we followed him through the maze
of rusted gray, our stage whispers increasingly loud,
and when he noticed, finally,
he knelt down and held his arms out,
and asked us what we'd like
for Christmas.
You can't wrap a bicycle,
not once it's outside the box, anyway.
So imagine:
lying awake for hours,
hoping to catch his entry,
but eventually we're asleep
and up at first light
we sneak downstairs
and there, under the tree, the paper,
hung loosely over what can only be
two bicycles. And when we finally wake
our parents, and the coffee's made
and the green light given,
we tear the paper off
and stand back to admire a minute
the black and red frame,
the number plate in front,
just like a proper BMX,
only with our ages,
my 6 and Nick's 5,
and that was more
than proof enough.
Ver. 2
The rolling green
of the north west Catskills,
from the smudged window
of a speeding caravan,
bound for Cooperstown,
for Baseball again.
But on the left,
we pull off the road,
a pause for antiques,
to fill out Father's vision
of Country Living,
the scattered lawn, full
of farm detritus—rusted wheels
and iron rooster weather vanes.
We chase each other
through an accidental maze,
until we see him:
Gray hair, pot belly.
Red Suspenders,
a full beard.
Our almost whispers
not quiet enough,
he comes to us,
kneeling and asks,
“So what would you like,
for Christmas this year?”
That Christmas eve,
we stayed up as late as we could,
hoping to catch him in the act,
and when we awoke those few hours later,
snuck downstairs where the tree
was half covered with presents,
and at the front,
the two largest shapes,
draped with sheets and sheets
of wrapping paper,
but unmistakable all the same.
We ran upstairs, to wake the parents,
and dragging them, bleary
from their warm cocoon,
tore off the paper
of our new bikes,
shiny BMXs, with number plates,
5 for Nick and 6 for me,
and that
was proof enough.
