Twas Christmas Eve and Selma was bereft. Ten months ago, they’d told her she’d never recover.
“Walking by Christmas,” she’d countered, convinced they were wrong. Now, her eyes were the only moving part of her body.
“Eyes are a road map to the soul,” her husband whispered as he kissed them, reminding Selma of her mother’s fairy-sparkle kisses.
“Remember, Santa comes tonight, last chance to dream big.”
Her wishes always came true back then, and now?
All night, Selma passionately painted Santa’s skies with her vision: Selma walking.
At 11:59 Selma leaned out her open window.
“I love you, Santa!”