Digression: Of Hallowe'en and Homestead - October 30, 2010

The trouble with pumpkins is that you can’t eat them.

Well, you can. Technically. But I’m not American, I don’t like pie. And I think someone would notice if an entire pumpkin just disappeared off their doorstep one night. Besides, I’d never sink to the level of stealing large vegetables. It just isn’t my scene.

Still.

The light’s nice. I like light. I like fire. Not in a creepy way, it’s just warm. I like the warmth, if I’m going to be particular. Warm my fingers, my blood.

I was scared of them as a child, you know. When they’re carved and flickering. Never ran and hid behind my mother’s skirts though, that just wasn’t an option with her. I came right down in the pecking order. Unless I was bringing her booze or something serious had happened, like one of us had been lynched or the television had been stolen, she didn’t want to know. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in those grinding bones.

So I left.

But I digress.

Digress. You didn’t think I knew that word, did you? Thought that word was too complicated for me.  But I bet you can’t tell me the two meanings of the word ‘sesquipedalian’, either. You see, that’s where we differ. I can. I also know pi to seventy-one decimal places whist we’re on the subject of boasting, but it isn’t something I like to show off about. That was enough to get you killed, back home. Being clever.

Home. Strange word. Brings about no imagery for me. No Christmas trees, roaring fires or baked bread smells. I doubt it does that for anyone, really. It’s just not many of us admit it.

But I have my home now. You could start a fire there, but I daresay it wouldn’t go down well. Nowhere to bake. Nowhere to put a tree, either. Certainly nowhere to put a pumpkin at Hallowe’een, but it’ll do. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I think you know my home as well as I do. Walking through it like you own the place. Glancing at me. Sympathetic, occasionally. Sometimes judging. Mostly just pleasant surprise. ‘Oh! Look at that! There’s a man there!’.

Shall I let you in on a secret? Just you and me? Keep your sympathy, I don’t want it. What could I do with sympathy? Give me money, if you like. Let the council find me a house. But what would I want with it? It’s not home.

From across the road, a pumpkin smiles.

He understands.

-Annabel Mahoney