When I was a child, I
wished for Santa to bring me a
horse. The horse could be any
color, but I wanted it to be brown
to match my hair and eyes. I wrote
it on my wish list, told my parents
about it, and even colored pictures
of me riding the horse with my
Crayola crayons. I had planned
out where it would live: in my
backyard, which had about an acre
of room for the horse to roam. I
would ride the horse every day.
I was even considering its name.
Every year from the time I was 5
to the time I was 10, I wished for
a horse to appear in my yard for
Christmas. Every year on Christmas
morning, I ran out onto my
frosty patio to look out onto my
lawn. And each year, there was
nothing but grass. I was highly
disappointed. Santa could have set
up a stable in one night; he had
elves. It was completely probable
to have nine flying reindeer and a
sled carry one horse just for me;
who cared what the other children
in the world wanted? As the years
progressed, my dream faded day
by day until it was nothing more
than a whisper.