Tomorrow is Christmas. I can clearly picture the Christmas mornings of my childhood, when I would get out of bed and creep down the hallway toward the living room. I’d take one look at what had been left under our Christmas tree, my heart aflutter with excitement over the revelation that Santa Claus had been there. That I had been sufficiently well-behaved to make the “nice” list, and that in an hour or less I would know which of my hoped-for gifts he had given me. Then I’d run to my parents’ bedroom and make such noise that they couldn’t possibly sleep any longer and we’d soon be opening presents. But somehow, the excitement of unwrapping my present at age forty-seven eclipses even my youthful anticipation. I wonder why.

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