I’ve carved pumpkins since I was a little kid. Halloween is my favorite holiday of all time and carving the pumpkin is an age-old tradition that should always be upheld, whether that means carving one in the communal bathroom in the freshman dorms or buying a cheap pumpkin from the Kroger parking lot, the tradition must be upheld. Which is why this year I made a point of going to Kroger and picking out the largest prettiest pumpkin in the parking lot and placing it in my grocery cart, right next to the sign that read not to put your children in the cart. What can I say? I’m a rebel.
Throughout the week I would spend my classes on Pinterest, pinning designs and faces to give my pumpkin a personality. Would he be scary? Would he be happy? Maybe he’d be a little creepy. I pictured the reactions of trick or treaters who would come up and compliment my skillful cuts, 20 years of experience really does pay off if I do say so myself. I had picked out the date, a free period of time in my busy schedule where I could settle down with Halloween movies playing in the background wearing an old t-shirt ready to dig in. Unfortunately, I never go that chance.
It happened when I was out of town, home for the weekend. I got a message with an image attachment from one of my roommates. I could not have predicted what would happen when I opened that message. Lo and behold there lay my pumpkin, unrecognizable, smeared on the brick sidewalks of these Richmond streets. He was taken from this world far too young, he never got to grow old, develop a personality unique to himself. He never had the opportunity to fulfill his Halloween destiny. A little piece of myself died with him.
A few days later, I thought, while I can’t replace him, I can try again, my doorstep would feel empty without a pumpkin to sneer at the goblins of the night this Halloween. So I went back to the Kroger parking lot and picked out one more. This one was a bit different; he was a little taller, not as round and had a longer stem with little curls hanging on the side. This one would do, I thought, and this time I would protect him.
And so I would bring him in at night and I carved a lovely face in with a wicked smile and eyes that told their own stories. This time it would work. Halloweekend came up and I set him outside and thought that I would bring him in each night at 1 a.m. Then he could send his light out until it was time for bed. A sort of curfew, if you will. Then came Saturday night. Perhaps if I had paid closer attention, maybe I shouldn’t have left him out knowing the block party was happening just a few feet away. As I stood just inside, barely a stone’s throw away, one of my friends heard a noise. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and flung open the door and I saw it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No smashed pumpkin, no shattered candle, no pumpkin at all. He had been kidnapped. Now I must live without knowing what became of my pumpkin. And I ask you Richmond, who steals a pumpkin from the stoop of someone’s home at 10 o’clock at night? Is he fulfilling his Halloween destiny on another doorstep or has he joined his brother in the pumpkin patch in the sky? We may never know, and I must come to terms with the fact that instead of having a pumpkin by door, I’ll be hanging an obituary instead.