As I sat reading and waiting for my bus, a weary-looking older woman walked by, one shoulder slumped to accommodate her halfhearted clasp on the tiny, wriggling hand of her tiny, wriggling granddaughter. Suddenly, the little, little girl stopped their laborious progress down the street to start bouncing and pointing at a nondescript minivan. “It’s Santa’s car!” she cried joyously.
What? I thought, sneaking a peak between the pages of my book and the brim of my hat.
“What?” Grandmother replied. “Whose car is it, honey?”
“It’s Santa’s car!” the girl pealed again, louder and with absolute confidence. Grandmother, seeking a reality check, caught my eye. We exchanged looks of pure puzzlement, while Granddaughter inspected the unremarkable blue paint. “It’s beautiful,” she intoned, hushed and reverent.