See it stream down your face

In the transferred-from-8mm-to-videotape images, I am no more than three years into this life. My finger-sucking habit is boldly evident, even switching hands when necessary, when the other hand is needed to balance or reach or touch, the switch is quick and seamless - so attached was I at the time to the security. The neighborhood children, Santa's presence, and even Santa's lap seem to be simultaneously thrilling and intimidating. I watch myself clamor to the front, put my hand on Santa's lap, jam my fingers in my mouth, switch hands, pick up an ashtray and spin it around, put it down and switch hands again. From the looks of it, the ashtray was empty. Good thing, that. The other children swarm around Santa, hungry for their turn. One child brings him a shiny package from beneath the Christmas tree. She's trying to cut in line, that one. She is told to return it. She pouts at the camera. Santa pulls me onto his lap, and I say something that he couldn't have possibly understood since I nervously jam both hands in my mouth, pause, jerk my head to my right, and hold my glance there.

There are five seconds of the grainy black and white film in which I jump from Santa's lap and run across the room to my father, place my hand on his knee, lean into him, and from that safe spot, turn my head to survey the chaos and excitement that was Santa in our living room.

That night and those five seconds, they tell the story of my entire life.