It was thirty degrees in the park. A young mother, wrapped in a faded, gray tweed, overcoat, walked along the icy sidewalk with her son. The boy, bundled warmly in a green snowsuit, repeatedly left the sidewalk to make footprints in fluffy snow. He bent down, gathered a handful of snow, molded it into a small ball and flung it gleefully into the sky. The mother, barely aware of her son's excitement, walked quietly, lost among her own thoughts and sorrows. Starlight filled the corners of her sapphire blue eyes.

It was Christmas eve. Her meager Christmas bonus from the drive-in where she worked, was just enough to keep the heat turned on another month. They had dropped the check into the mail, and now she and the boy were on their way home.

Sitting alone on the bench in the middle of the park was an old man. Except for the crispness of the air biting at his sunny red cheeks the man remained as toasty as a retriever by his master's fireplace. His face was framed with a curly white beard that spread from shoulder to shoulder like a sheepskin bib. A wool stocking cap, rust red in color, adorned his head. His rust colored coat and slacks were tailored to perfection and he looked like a Santa Claus. Not a nineties department store Santa but a classic Santa from the turn of the century. In the city, among the tinsel and neon lights, he would have looked out of place. Yet, here in the park, where time was meaningless among the snow laden pines that glistened beneath the creamy moon, this Santa belonged. He sat on a bench and stared longingly into starry sky. This city was not home, but tonight, it was where he belonged.

The young boy approached, hopping along the sidewalk, crushing ice crystals with every bounce. He was six years old, still too young to be skeptical about Santa's existence. "Look Momma, is that Santa Claus?" He whispered excitedly.

"Looks like it," she answered softly, instinctively grasping his hand and stepping toward the edge of the sidewalk that was furthest from the bench. Like an injured bird avoids the eyes of a cobra, the mother intentionally avoided looking at the man on the bench. The boy however, could not take his eyes off the man, who was to him the fullest representation of Christmas and all its goodness. As they approached within five steps, the old man and the young boy exchanged smiles. The boy dropped his mother's hand, and before she could gather him back under the security of her arm, he was standing at the old man's knee.

"Are you Santa Claus?" He asked.

"Nicholas," he replied, with a happy sigh, "My name is Nicholas."

His answer made the boy giggle. "You're not Nicholas." He said.

"Why not?" The old man questioned. "Why can't I be Nicholas?"

"Because, I'm Nicholas," the boy giggled. "You're Santa Claus."

"Can't we both be Nicholas," the old man asked. "Are you the only one named Nicholas in all this world?"

The boy turned his head toward his mother, who was still standing cautiously on the opposite edge of the sidewalk clutching her frayed collar with crossed hands. There was something in the old man's voice and the laughter he brought to her son, that eased the mother's fear of the stranger.

"Is he really Nicholas?" The boy asked over his shoulder, confident that his mother would know the truth.

"If he says he is, I guess he knows his own name." The mother answered in a soft timid voice.

Turning his attention back to the old man, Nicholas asked accusingly, "How come you look like Santa Claus?"

"I don't think I know who Santa Claus is," the old man answered. He tugged lightly on his beard and almost appeared, truly unlearned in this matter.

"Yes you do," the boy said gleefully, "Everybody knows who Santa Claus is."

"You tell me about this Santa Claus," The old man said. He winked at the boy's mother as if asking her permission and then patted the wooden bench as as invitation for the young boy to sit beside him. Nicholas reached out, and the old man lifted him onto the bench. The boy sat facing the old man while his mother stood beside him; her hand on his shoulder. She gazed into the old man's coal black eyes. Although there was not the slightest resemblance, she was reminded of her own grandfather and a time long ago when she was a child. A strawberry milkshake pink flowed into her previously pale cheeks and all her caution faded into the frosty cosmos. 

"Now, Master Nicholas, tell me all you know about Santa Claus."

It seemed like a strange question, but the boy felt he had the old man's undivided attention, so he began to explain, "Santa Claus brings presents to everybody at Christmas."

"What kind of presents?"

"Toys; trucks, and trains, and a bicycle, and a football, and a sled, and ..." His excitement grew with each toy he named.

"Will Santa Claus bring you all these things," the old man asked in amazement.

"Uh huh." Then the boy looked at his mother as if seeking an assurance from her. She smiled a sad smile that the boy immediately understood, and he corrected his statement. "Well ... no, not all that," he said. Then in an effort to defend his hero, the boy continued softly, "There are lots and lots kids and sometimes Santa runs out of toys.

"Does Santa bring you any presents?" The old man asked with honest concern.

"Oh yea!" the boy exclaimed with excitement. "Last Christmas he brought me this snowsuit." He brushed his chest with mitten covered hands and said happily, "It's a really warm suit."

"And does Santa bring a present for your mother?"

"No, Santa Claus is just for kids ... but I made her card, with cotton glued on it for snow." There was an obvious sparkle of pride in the boy's eyes.

"And your Father, did you make him a card?"

"My father died. He was really sick, then he died."

"I'm sorry," the old man said, touching the boy's knee, "Do you miss him?"

"I don't remember him any more ... but I wrote a letter to him and my momma mailed it." Turning to his mother, he said, "You mailed my letter didn't you."

"Yes darling, I mailed your letter." Her voice cracked and the starlight trickled down her cheek. She brushed it aside and the boy, engrossed in his conversation, never saw it.

"My Daddy's in heaven," he said. "He lives in a big house, right next door to Jesus. The old man listened attentively and the boy talked rapidly for several minutes. Finally, Nicholas breathed a thoughtful pause ... and then began again. "Jesus was born on Christmas morning." he said.

"Is that so?" the old man answered, winking again at the boy's mother, "Tell me about it."

"It was a long, long time ago. Jesus is old now, like you, but when he was born he was just a baby. These three men came to visit him and they brought him presents. He started to say something else but first he needed to check his facts out with his mother. "Momma, do you think one of the wise men was Santa Claus."

"I don't know," she answered, with a warm giddiness that awakened her first genuine smile of the evening. "I've never thought about it." 

"Well I think one of the wise men was Santa Claus because he gave baby Jesus a Christmas present. I think the other two were his helpers ... but I'm not real sure about that. Anyway, that's why we have Christmas and why Santa Claus brings toys."

"Well thank you, Nicholas, I'm glad you've told me all about Santa Claus ... and about Jesus too. You're a very smart boy. Now, I guess you'll need to get home so you can see what Santa Claus brought you this year."

A shiver like the north wind, pierced the boy's mother. She would never say so to a stranger, but except for a stocking filled with an apple, an orange, a handful of nuts and some candy, there would be no Christmas present this year. She knew that in the morning her son would need an explanation and she wondered what she'd tell him.

"First, I have to go to sleep," Nicholas said matter-of-factly, "Then when I wake up I can open my present."

The old man smiled bountifully, stood, and lifted Nicholas to his feet on the bench. Then he reached out his hand toward the boy's mother. "Thank you for sharing your son with me," he said, with a deep joyful sigh. "You've made an old man very happy on Christmas eve."

He shook her hand and slipped her a bill with such a tender compassion, that it never occurred to her to do anything but grasp the money in her palm.

"Thank you," she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her clutched hand.

The old man drifted away into the direction the mother and son had come from. The woman hugged Nicholas tightly, kissed his forehead and stared lovingly into the face of her husband's son. Nicholas crinkled his nose and asked, "Are you sure that wasn't Santa Claus?"

"I don't know," she said, slowly shaking her head. She fondled the soft hundred dollar bill between her fingers, then quietly answered, "To you he was Santa Claus, to me, he was an angel."

end