A prom queen, an old hag, a dead president.
Chewy cream-filled caramels, Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts.
Foreboding music, hanging bones, a smirking pumpkin.
Running to each house. Stumbling up the steps, knocking on the door and breathlessly forcing out "Trick or treat!" Impatient, you dance side to side as your check out your stash. "Is that a penny?" you ask yourself as you spot the copper coin among the sugary treasures. "Cheap," you mutter under your breath as the door swings open.
Your smile is automatic. You have blocks of houses to get to, no time for small talk.
You run through the leaves, completely dismissing the sidewalks (good manners be gone!). House to house. Tumbling over limbs. Leaping over tombstones.
You can't stop. You must not stop. You will succeed!
Your body grows weary as the hands on the clock announce the end of the day. But you still spot porch lights in the distance. Onward you go.
Until. You can go . . . no more.
The weight of your pillowcase has forced you to slow. You peak in at the little pieces of wrapped goodness. "Will this carry me until Christmas?" you ask yourself. You know it is an improbability, but you have hope.
As the hour strikes midnight, with Salem's Lot (or is it the Exorcist?) playing in the background, the tired ghost hanging from the staircase, you sit at the kitchen table. You take your bag and empty it . . . the candy spreads across the table.
Mom reaches for the Heath Bars. Dad reaches for the Snickers. Their eyes sparkle as they unwrap their prizes.
You sit back and smile, hands behind your head. You prop your feet on the chair and soak in the sweet greatness that is you.
And in the wee corner of your mind you start to plan. For next year. Maybe a map? A bigger pillow case? A wagon! My three little siblings . . . my minions . . . (cue evil cackling laugh).
He has no idea what he is in for.
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