Remembering Halloween

By Peter Bowden

 


Under the early dark of Halloween night, two boys stepped from the porch and into the crisp air, each holding a brown paper sack already softening at the edges from the weight of candy. The street glowed with porch lights, and the faint smell of pumpkin smoke and fallen leaves hung in the air. Their costumes—thin plastic masks with elastic bands that bit the ears, capes that fluttered like restless shadows—had been bought at the five and dime that afternoon, a last-minute triumph of adventure over allowance.

They went door to door, ringing bells and calling out the magic words that made strangers smile and candy drop like blessings. The houses varied—some lit bright with jack-o’-lanterns grinning in the window, others dim, with only a porch bulb and the sound of footsteps approaching slow. The boys laughed louder at each step, the sound of their paper sacks brushing against their knees like the rhythm of the night itself. Each porch light became a small constellation, and each porch a new world.

By the time the moon climbed higher, their masks had slipped to their chins and the capes dragged low. The neighborhood had grown quieter, the air colder, and the boys walked slower now, comparing treasures under the glow of a streetlamp. Chocolate bars, wax lips, taffy in crinkled paper—all proof of the night’s adventure. Somewhere a door closed softly, and they turned for home, their footsteps echoing down the sidewalk. The sacks swung at their sides, heavy with candy and something else—something like wonder, already fading but still sweet.

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