Everyone has their own remembered hallmarks of growing up. The biggest ones are often so telling. For instance, you may remember the day it struck you that Santa’s part was being played by dad, or grandpa, or a well intentioned auntie. You may remember the time you learned the truth about the tooth fairy. You may even have had an event far more extistentially delicate revelation involving god, or the after life.
All of these events though, whatever they may be to you, stand out in your memory as a specific moment when a veil of childhood was lifted and the sunlight of adulthood began heating your skin, filling your fertile, youthful mind with the worry and depressing reality.
For me, it was the day I was watching old rerun comedy sketches on TV (very old reruns, possibly on PBS) and I made a jarring observation causing me to impulsively blurt out “Groucho Marx’s moustache is painted on!” I was what, 9 years old? 12?
That was the death of my Santa. What was yours?