The little boy and the wrecked Santa

Last year, on Christmas Eve, I was rushing into a big music store in Paris, to get the last-minute gifts, and there, before the entrance escalator, was this homeless man. He was maybe around 55, half-dressed like Santa, but other than the red blouse and hat, he was wearing his everyday jeans and a black, 5-day beard that looked nothing like the old man’s one. He was begging for money, with probably quite a lot of alcohol running in his veins, as he wasn’t really capable of sitting up, and his eyes looked blown and lost, with not even a shade of Santa’s cheerful smiles in them.

There was a family walking by. A little boy pointed at the man with his tiny finger, his eyes staring in awe at this scruffy, rickety Santa. His father looked at the man with disgust, and instantly grabbed the child’s hand and pulled him away. But the boy’s big eyes kept looking behind, not letting his Santa go.

I would like to wish a Merry Christmas to all the children, these little humans whose heart is still pristine and whose eyes can see a Santa in every man. Even in those their parents look at as if they were the garbage they just threw out of their house, and of their life, once and for all.

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