Kiss Me, Santa

By Joanna Fuhrman

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On a drive away from Miami—the city my mom and her family 
            moved to in the 40s—I spot a cumulus tableau, a long thin 
cloud that looks exactly like Santa Claus on a sled—
            even his reindeer are in cloud-form mushing ahead—
and so from the rental car window I snap a cell picture of it 
            and at that moment I can hear my now-dead 
mom cackling at my excitement. Not very Jewish, she laughs
            at me. Not very Jewish. I keep hearing. 
Mom never liked going to synagogue or studying Torah 
            or Talmud, but she enjoyed laughing when she heard 
of other Jewish families who had Christmas trees and whose kids 
            believed in Santa. Like she’d joke about Jews with tattoos
even though she loved eating buttered lobster.  
            Our people, she’d say. We don’t do that, our people. 
My father was the one who would try to find our family 
            a synagogue somewhere that would be comfortable
for us non-Hebrew speaking quasi-atheist Jews. He was the one 
            who dragged us to the Zen Buddhist house for Rosh Hashanah 
or the havurah in Albuquerque where a white-robed rabbi chanted 
            in Aramaic with a Navaho drum. Still, my father would have 
loved for us to have a Christmas tree, like he had in his own 
            childhood home, like all the other Jewish families he grew up 
with had, in what was then called Midwood, but now has other 
            fancier names like Kensington or Fiske Terrace. 
Secretly, I think Mom might have loved Santa too. What’s not to love 
            about round bellies, long, white beards and endless plates 
of homemade cookies? Who doesn’t love the laughter that follows 
            one’s own dumb jokes? That laughter itself is very Jewish, isn’t it?  
If Santa had visited us, I bet Mom would have given him pieces 
            of her famous overstuffed raison-walnut apricot jam rugelach
(called “mock strudel” in the early 60s cookbook), and I am certain 
            that she would have been awake when Santa arrived —
because 3 A.M.—that was her favorite time to be alive—
            her time away from me and Dad and everyone who wanted her 
to listen to them or have her do stuff. When she was alone at 3 A.M., 
            in the amber-stained reading-glass-lit half dark, 
in her wood-paneled den, in our Bronx split-level, would Mom 
            have poured Santa a glass of Dr. Brown’s diet cherry soda?  
Together, would they have relished the snap of a thick sour dill?

Joanna Fuhrman is an Assistant Teaching Professor in Creative Writing at Rutgers University and the author of seven books of poetry, including To a New Era (Hanging Loose Press 2021) and the forthcoming Data Mind (Curbstone/Northwestern University Press 2024). Poems have appeared in Best American Poetry 2023, The Pushcart Prize Anthology, The Academy of American Poets' Poem-a-day and The Slowdown podcast.

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