?Haven?t you written to Father Christmas yet??

I slowly look up and shake my head no.

Daddy looks at me and fakes a smile. I know he?s pretending that everything?s alright, but I?m not a little girl anymore. I understand what he?s going through.

?Well, it?s Christmas tomorrow. Why don?t you write to him now??

?Nah, I don?t think so,?

?Santa might just forget you if you don?t write to him,? Dad says, wagging his finger at me playfully.

I gaze up at Daddy, scrutinizing his face. He?s trying so hard ? trying so hard to sound jolly and carefree, just so that I can spend a happy Christmas.

Finally, I pick up a pen and a piece of notepaper. ?Okay,? I say.

Daddy smiles again, this time genuinely. ?That?s like my girl!?

I sit down at my desk. My mind?s gone blank, and I don?t know what to write. For three hours, I stay there, thinking.

Toys, dolls, books? Nothing seems to matter anymore. There?s nothing I want, nothing I could possibly desire, except?

Suddenly, I know what to write. I know what I want for Christmas.

I bend down and start scribbling on the notepaper:

Dear Santa,

Finally, night is falling

And Christmas day is drawing near,

Yet I can think of only one thing,

To ask for this year,

Santa, all my friends are asking,

For dolls and clothes and silver rings,

But what I?m asking for,

Is much more special than all those fancy things?

Santa, will you please

Give me my mommy back this year?

Coz nothing?s ever been the same,

Since she stopped being there,

Santa, all the hospital doctors said,

That she had colon cancer,

And that whatever we did, Daddy and I

She would never get better,

Santa, I remember the last time I saw her,

She was weak and pale on the hospital bed,

But when she saw me she smiled,

And then she was dead.

Santa, I hope you understand

That I love and miss her very badly,

And that there?s nothing else I would like to see

Tomorrow, under my Christmas tree

Santa, time to end this letter,

I know I?ve taken up a lot of your time and energy,

But please, one last time, I beg of you,

Please, give me back? my mommy?

When I?m done, I go and give Daddy my letter for him to post.

?Can I read it?? Daddy asks.

?Yes, you can read my letter,? I agree. I know he?ll like what I have written. I know he wants Mom back just as badly as me.

Daddy kisses my forehead. ?You should go to sleep, now,?

Then he carefully opens the envelope, unfolds my letter and begins reading.

His face is stony and impassive.

But as I walk out and close the door behind me, I think I hear him cry?

It?s morning. I feel the sun?s beams on my face.

Quickly, I wake up and race towards the Christmas tree.

I?ve been a good girl. Santa must have granted my wish!

But when I reach the living room, there?s no mommy. Everything?s exactly like I left it last night. There?s nothing lying beneath the tree ? except?

I walk over to the pile of old yellowing diaries sitting just under the Christmas tree. I open the first one. It begins with:

19th March, 1973,

Beau-Bassin

My eyesight is blinded with tears as I recognize the old-fashioned handwriting adorning every single page of the diary.

I skim through the four fat volumes. Each one of them is full of my mother?s daily experiences, her dreams, her aspirations, her troubles, her joys and her pains. Each one of them is like a gateway to her soul.

Tears are streaming freely down my cheeks now. While I read her diaries, I can actually imagine her light, carefree voice, talking to me. I recognize the familiar expressions she used before she died, and I notice various spelling mistakes. I make the same ones, too.

Someone kneels down beside me. It is Dad. His eyes are moist, too. It is the first time I see him cry.

?You see, Princess,? he says, his voice choked with emotion. ?Your mother is not dead. She lives on in her diaries. She lives on through you,?

My mom is not here with us. It still pains to think of it. But she is not dead. She is still living through me.

And I know that whatever I do, wherever I go, she will always be there to guide me.

Nikhita OBEEGADOO