My vintage Santa plates stare at me from my holiday table, nestled onto blue and gold chargers as red crystal goblets stand beside them. I can’t help wondering if his eyes are watching me and taking notes for the naughty list. Oh, but Santa, I can explain!

I sit for a moment at the head of the table nudging a napkin a bit to the left, and my mind drifts to each place setting, imagining who I would seat for an elegant dinner if the guest list were without bounds.

Naturally, I would position Santa at the opposite end of the table to ensure a safe distance from my guilty conscience. After all, he might ask about the pecans (my favorite) that went missing before the pie was made, question me about mischievous acts that I simply don’t recall, or shake his head at me for skipping the gym this morning, which makes five years in a row.

He would be jolly in his big red suit, twirling his snow white beard, and I would earn points by ensuring that he got an extra serving of dessert.

My next guest would be my guardian angel who would insist on sitting beside me because that’s where she has always been, no doubt put there by a God who loves me. We would remember the past—all the skinned knees, scraped elbows, banged noggins—and I would thank her for the times she held me when I cried, tickled me into giggling, and led me toward the light when narrow daylight entered my room. With a glass of sparkling champagne, we would toast the present and future.

With five more seats to fill, I place my mama beside me. Will I ever stop missing that woman? Lost in those beautiful blue eyes, I would hold her hand while she told me all about Heaven and Daddy, who has joined her there.

The seat beside her goes to my other mama, Peggy, wearing a periwinkle blue gown. She and Mama quickly became friends, sisters really, when Chris and I came together almost 15 years ago. I am better for knowing and being loved by them. My Chris gets the seat next to his mama whom he lost this year and longs for every day.

I am saving a seat for the Czar of Christmas himself, Mr. Christopher Radko, so I can thank him for his friendship over the years, and he can tell us stories of snow globes, ornaments, and his magical holidays.

The final chair at my flight of fancy holiday table would be left empty on purpose, just in case one of you wants to drop by for a bit of Heaven on earth.

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David Creel is a Vicksburg resident and a syndicated columnist. Contact him at beautifulwithdavid@gmail.com.