My older brother brings back memories of near death experiences.

These include running for my life when our parents were away from the house.

I don’t know how I caused him such anger as to chase me with a broom.

My best strategy was to hide from him until our parents returned.

It is something of a surprise for me to remember a Christmas when he acted like a thoughtful brother.

I was old enough to have given up a belief in Santa Claus but I clung to it even after reason had entered my mind. Somehow I couldn’t face the idea of life without Santa Claus.

In our family, Santa arrived on Christmas Eve while we were in the yard shooting off firecrackers.

My brother usually built the bonfire in the back yard. Our Christmas tree was at the front of the house.

Being 4 years older, he oversaw his younger brother and sisters as we threw firecrackers and drew starry pictures with sparklers.

In previous years, my mom called out the back door to tell us of presents under the tree.

On this particular night, my brother said, “Do you hear that?” We stopped the firecrackers and sparklers and listened.

“I think it’s Santa Claus,” said my brother, who never told a lie. I almost thought I heard a jingle.

If my brother heard Santa, then he was real.

My heart was full of joy. Santa was real.

We rushed inside and there were our presents, under the tree. From that night and for another year I convinced myself, against all evidence to the contrary, that Santa was real.

Bonnie Stanard is a novelist and member of Authors for Literacy.