"What do you want for Christmas this year?" Mom asked. She shoved a catalog in front of me, full of colorful pictures of toys and games, and words too big for me to read.
"Do you want this doll?" she pointed to one of the pictures. "It comes with a special purple hairbrush." It did look like a nice doll, with three sets of clothes, and long golden locks for brushing. But another toy on the page distracted me. It was a pink car, with a family of tiny dolls that could sit in the little seats. One of the dolls had a tiny suitcase, and another carried a picnic basket full of miniature food. The next picture demonstrated the dolls sitting down on a checkered picnic blanket, happily eating. I pointed to the picture, hoping Mom would take notice.
"Do you want that?"
"Uh-huh," I nodded. But it wasn't what I really wanted. I didn't want the pink car, or the dolls, or the picnic blanket. I didn't want any of the toys in the catalog. What I wanted wouldn't be in the catalog or any of the other catalogs on the table. What I wanted was to go on a picnic myself, or just anywhere out of the house besides school. To be able to go anywhere, without a parent or a mask on my face. What I wanted was a magic carpet.
I saw a magic carpet for the first time in a video. It was one of those silly videos that Mom shows me on her iPad, with the animals that talk and sing and play games. One of the animals, I think it was the tiger, got a mysterious package from a wizard, which turned out to be a magic carpet. He used the carpet to fly around and rescue the other animals from all kinds of predicaments. It looked like so much fun, flying around in the sky without a care in the world. Being able to go anywhere. Being free.
"Mom," I called. "I want a magic carpet."
"A magic carpet? For Christmas?" She was carrying Eli, one of the twins.
"Yes."
"Really? Do you think Santa has any magic carpets?" I thought about that for a moment. If Santa has the magic to make reindeer fly, surely he could muster up enough for a magic carpet. Not a big one, one just the right size for a six-year-old.
"Yes."
"I don't know about that." Before I could argue, she walked back to the kitchen to feed the twins. They might be able to fit on my magic carpet with me. Maybe even Brendan, my older brother, if he promised to behave. I would fly everywhere, to school, to the park, to my friends' houses, to swimming lessons. And sometimes I would just fly to have fun, with no destination in particular. I would ask Dad if I could borrow his phone to find my way home in case I got lost.
But I wouldn't take Mom or Dad on my magic carpet, not ever. I would hug and kiss them goodbye, but I would never let them get on board. They would make me wear my mask. They would tell me to cover my mouth if I coughed or sneezed, and they would take me to the doctor if I had even the faintest sniffle. I wouldn't want anyone or anything to get in the way of my magic carpet. I would fly without a care in the world. I would be able to go anywhere. To be free.
Author's Note: This is based off of a true story about one of my cousins. Her twin brothers were diagnosed with an immune disorder, prompting her parents to be extra cautious with the family during the pandemic. Last year, she attended kindergarten over Zoom. A five-year-old. Trying to learn online. She is now able to attend in-person school, but she must eat lunch alone in order to minimize exposure. While I understand her parents' reasons, I feel like fully remote learning must have had detrimental effects on her and her older brother's mental health these past couple of years, as well as that of millions of students around the world. While the exact events of this story are fictional, it is true that she requested a magic carpet for Christmas this year, although one can only guess at her motives. She and her brother have received their first dose of the vaccine.