The last dab of Thanksgiving leftovers are gone. The kitchen table is full of brass, glass, and wooden pumpkins next to a fabric-stuffed turkey with gangly legs. It all waits to be put away so I can dig out years worth of Christmas decorations.

That could wait, I decided after I found a shoe box of old photos in the garage when I searched for something else.

The box held a lifetime of memories, especially a photo of my sister and me. We sat on the steps outside our fi rst-floor apartment at Northeast 10th St. in Oklahoma City. I was probably three or four years old and she was maybe ten or eleven.

We slept together on a roll-away bed in what was probably the dining room and could see into the living room through double doors with windows.

That’s how I was able to see Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

They stood next to our Christmas tree because I can remember the bubble lights that looked like the eye dropper that Momma used to put medicine in my eyes.

It was wonderful!

Exciting!

I tried to wake up my sister, but she just told me to “Stop it!”

Santa wore his red cap and had a big, fat belly that shook like a bowl full of Jello when he laughed. Momma looked beautiful in her just-permed hair that stunk up the house, and she wore a pretty red dress I’d never seen before.

I knocked on the glass pane but they didn’t hear me because there was Christmas music on Momma’s radio, then I think I settled down and went back to sleep.

You may not believe my story.

My sister didn’t.

I didn’t tell Momma and Daddy for years later.

Momma blushed.

Daddy winked, laughed and asked if Santa smoked his pipe.

In my mind I can still see them next to the mantle at that 10th Street apartment. It makes me want to feel the warmth from that old floor furnace, the smell of Daddy’s pipe tobacco, the comfort of Momma’s touch, and the wonder of Christmas through a child’s eyes.