I believed wholeheartedly in Santa. Mom would tell me a story of when she and her brother thought they heard sleigh bells on their roof as a kid. Then there was the one of my brother getting home really late on Christmas Eve after I asked how Santa knows when to deliver gifts. Mom said that my brother tripped over something invisible, which they thought was a gift. I loved those stories, but things went sour in third grade. This kid named Marcus went on a tangent about how Santa wasn't real and our parents lied to us. When I approached my Mother, she tried to keep me believing. She took my older friend (who knew) and I to see the Santa Claus movie in theaters, but it didn't work well enough. I found out that year. :/
But I still "believe" in Santa; I always will. He's apart of my life. There are great memories laying out the cookies. There are fantastic stories that I have of him and traditions before he came to the house. We still speak of Santa in my house like he's as real as he was when I was eight. My gifts are still signed by Santa and I still make a Christmas list. Call me immature, tell me I need to let go of the past, but I love the magic that I still feel today. And that's something that I won't let go of.