The Catcher.

I’d watch him as he stood on the corner of the street, the blizzard masking the fact he wasn’t all we made him out to be. He was a magical man, one that brought us candies and toys. I never knew why we called him the catcher, but we did.

He’d come every December 24th, giving parents the chance to get their kids presents—ones that’d ward of nightmares and ones that’d leave them in a state of unknown joy. The Catcher always knew what we wanted.

It was like he looked into the dreams in our hearts, and I remember, seven years old, hair in twin tails with a toothless grin, I talked to him for the first time. He gave me a dazzling smile, green eyes flashing into my ordinary brown ones. I remember the way his voice came out like sweet honey in a fresh pot of green tea that my mommy always made me when I was sick. The way it sounded was like the singing of a blue bird, it was a clear and beautiful.

The Catcher was a dream, he was my dream and I remembered wishing every December 26th for him to still be there. Standing on the street corner and giving me broad smiles to match my shy ones, but now he’s gone.

The Catcher, the dream catcher who always stood and watched over me on Christmas day, he was always there to make sure I was happy.

But now he’s no longer here for my children and me. He’s gone this magical man, and I could never stop him. My seven year old self was always looking for him but when I turned eight, he was gone. I found out that life is not as good as it can be.

Christmas was never the same without my catcher. Every now and then I still dream of him, standing in the corner of the blanketed sidewalk.