Every year.

He used to come every Christmas. He'd be here without fail: a smiling, jovial face, dressed in a warm coat that flowed down to his boots, fuzzy mittens on his hands, and a homemade hat that dangled over his ear. He'd always pop in when I least expected him, sweep me up into a giant hug, and ask how this year went. Whether it was good or bad, I always told him. And he'd always say I was doing a really good job. Then he'd hide my presents, pat me on the head and send me on my way.

The last time, it was raining instead of snowing. He arrived later than usual, and he looked sad. I asked why, but he just shook his head. "My time is up," he said softly. "But it'll be all right. Just remember: I'll always believe in you." Then he patted me on the head, put my presents under the tree, and left.

I didn't understand at first. My mother hugged me, and my father said it would be okay, but I cried anyway. I didn't know why. It felt like I'd lost him forever.

That summer, someone told me he wasn't real. I didn't want to believe them. I tried so hard. I plugged my ears and pulled my hat down to cover them, as if it would keep me from hearing the words. The other kids laughed at me. I tried to explain, but they were sure I was wrong. They asked questions like, "How does he know your name? How does he know what you want? Why does he always bring presents?" After a while, I gave up. I said I didn't know.

They said it was mother and father. I didn't want to believe them, so I waited. I sat on the couch, across from the TV, and fell asleep on Christmas Eve, waiting for him to appear.

That was a long time ago. I still wish I'd seen him, one last time. If you know a man with fuzzy mittens, and a long red coat that flows down to his boots, and a homemade hat that sticks out over his ear, please let me know. I just want to say goodbye.