Get Your Premium Membership

Pareidolia

Pareidolia is when we see familiar faces where they’re not supposed to be… Like Abe Lincoln in a cloud, the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast or Albert Einstein in a tree. Because our mind has a way of taking random bits of information and filling in the blanks…and at Christmas time every year…for Pareidolia…I give thanks. Take these random bits of information… I’m old, I have a white beard and if I happen to be wearing the color red… when children see my wrinkled face and a stocking cap upon my head more often than not they stop in their tracks…sometimes it’s just a pause… when their mind put all this information together and they think I’m Santa Claus. It happened the other night in the bookstore… when a little girl saw me behind the counter…and immediately paused… “Mom,” I heard her whisper, “I think that’s Santa Claus.” “Don’t be silly.” Her mom said showing a modicum of parental self-control. “What would Santa be doing in Florida in December when there’s so much to do at the North Pole?” Her mom grabbed her hand and they headed off down to the Children’s aisle… but not before the girl glanced back at me…and I gave her a wink and then a smile. ‘Shh.” I whispered as I put a finger to my lips…I imagine just like Santa would. She smiled back then nodded…as if she understood. As her mom was browsing in the store she came up to the counter, leaned over and whispered tenderly… “Don’t you worry, Santa. Your secrets safe with me.” I’ve been blessed to have a wonderful life… I have so much to be thankful for… many times by good fortune I’ve been kissed… and for a few weeks around Christmas every year… I add Pareidolia to that list. Yes, for a few weeks every December… you might say I’m a little jollier… because… a few children here in Florida believe I’m Santa Claus.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.


Book: Reflection on the Important Things