Small hands squished around even smaller globs of clay. Twenty-four in class; young minds, malleable as the clay we held. As a Christmas miracle, we were bestowed the ability to make anything our hearts desired. Music lulled the classroom into a focused frenzy of creativity and play. I found myself immersed in the making of my very own bunny. I had asked Him for one on the eve of His birth. I believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, He, and the Magic within me. My bunny made of clay may not have had the soft fluff, the glimmering white, but he would. He would grant my Christmas wish I knew. I took my bunny home, daydreaming of waking, he, alive in my hands. Until then, on my nightstand, petting him until he was soothed, my hopes and dreams had seeped into him. I went to bed knowing I would awake with my lively bunny. I dreamt of him, my sweet bunny But He never showed. When I awoke, he lay there as I had left him hours before. That was the moment I began to question the magic I once believed. Back then, I knew that magic By a different name.