363 Days A Year

A couple of years ago my foreman, Benjamin, informed me that with the internet & satellite and our flight team being self-replicating, plus the fact that our production facility was tops in every way, there was really no need for my constant supervision. With all the multiple safety and production standards, I could, in fact, take the rest of the year off.
Of course I would be needed for the big show, but that only took up a couple of days a year.
So, what to do the rest of my year? Well, that was easy. I had a mandate to help people. I wasn't just about giving presents, I was about giving hope. If I could do that all year round, so much the better.
I had a big bag of letters that, for one reason or another, hadn't been fulfilled. That was going to be my mission.
I would go out into the world and work some of these other missions that needed doing.
By the way, you can call me Kris. Or Nick. Some call me S.C., others even call me "Red" (must be a wardrobe thing) I just ask you don't call me "The Fat Guy." I hate that.

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November 15, 2004
I had to do this one first. It had been lost in the mail room longer than any letter I had ever come across. I might be too late, but I was going to try. This is what it said:
Dear Santa,
You don't need to bring me anything this year. I think I've been good (My Daddy says as good as a 10 year old girl can be) But you don't have to give me anything. All I want is to meet you. All my freinds laugh at me when I talk about you. They say I am silly to believe in you. If I could meet you I would know that they are the silly ones. So my only wish for this Christmas is to meet you face to face. Can I?
Melissa Fisher
110 Phind Drive
Detroit, Michigan.

Turning the envelope over you could read the date. December 20, 1930
I didn't know what to do. My heart was heavy that this soul had been so let down. I had to find her, and then find the courage to apologize. If she was even still alive.
It took some detective work, but after finding that the family had moved in 1943 from Detroit, I found her trail in Kansas City, Mo. where she had gone to school. Melissa had become a teacher, gotten married and had 3 children. After they had moved out she did work with preschool education for a decade. In the 1990's she had had a stroke, and then lost her husband to pneumonia in 2000.
In 2003 her children moved her from the family home into the D.B. Ultin care facility in Overland Park, Kansas.
As I walked up the drive it seemed a nice enough place, but there wasn't a lot of joy to be seen here. Then a pair of children ran out the door laughing, followed by what one would assume was a female grandparent. She, also was laughing.
This was the first positive sign since my arrival. At the desk I inquired about Melissa and an unsmiling Nurse gave me a room number.
Few times has a single walk felt so long. Down this plain corridor to that room seemed an eternity. As I came to the open door the sound of an oxygen machine was the only sound.
In the bed was a painfully frail body. She looked as though a strong wind might rip her apart and blow the pieces away. Her eyes were closed.
I fought to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes as I walked hesitantly over to the bed.
I reached out to take her hand, and with a flutter her eyes opened slightly.
Her face showed she didn't recognize me.
I held out her letter, and said in my gentlest tones, "I'm sorry it has taken so long."
She looked up at me, with no emotion on her face. Her lips moved, but nothing seemed to come out.
I crouched down and leaned my ear to her mouth.
In a whisper only an angel might make, she said, "I . . . always knew. . . you would come."
I stood to see her fragile but beaming smile.


(c) 2004 C. Wayne Owens