Halloween is two weeks in the wrong direction. Vestiges remain. There is a big box of leftover treats downstairs. They belong to a Boy and daily test my willpower. There are three pumpkins on our front step: one was for the house, one came decorated as a present for the Boy's birthday party and another was required to decorate at the Boy's after-school center.
Every day I come home I expect to find one or all of them smashed on the road (rotten teenagers). But they survived. Until yesterday, when Mamma told the Boy to put them all in the green bin. This he did with my help as we got ready to go skating.
On the walk to the rink, only two houses down, there's the splatter of someone else's smashed pumpkin in the roadway. The Boy wants to collect up the seeds to plant in the garden.
Mamma: You want to grow your own pumpkin for next year?
Boy: Yes, please!
Mamma: Well we'll buy some good seeds. These ones are all run-over and no good.
Boy: You mean the little pumpkin inside is all squished?
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