Walking in the half-light of pre-dawn and mindful that daylight will bring pedestrians using canes, walkers, wheelchairs, and even strollers, I kicked and pushed fallen branches off the sidewalk, the remnants of the night's high winds.
Guy Fawkes Day, that British celebration based on a history of grisly executions, plots of mass murder, and state-sanctioned religious persecution, found me reducing the jack o' lanterns into mash for future pies. I saved my favourite for last. I was the one pumpkin-carver in our household to use a stencil this year, and I'm rather proud of the result.
I ran my fingers over the holes and etchings, and thought of this year's Hallowe'en.
We're only allowed to shell out to trick-or-treaters who live in our building, and this year, for the first time in three years, no one came. I left younger daughter to savour her own Hallowe'en tradition, singing along with Rocky Horror Picture Show, and escorted Demeter home through the dark.
It was still early enough afterwards to stroll out to Linden Avenue, which had been preparing for Hallowe'en for weeks. Unlike the spooky other streets near our place, practically deserted under a misty half moon, with outlines of owls and cats posted in the windows and jack o'lanterns glowing in forlorn festivity from the steps and pathways, the hilly part of Linden was crammed with costumed revellers of many sizes, crowding in front of the ambitious frontyard tableaux, and lined up for someone's haunted house.
I breathed in the atmosphere, from the uncrowded side of the street, and wondered what the COVID count would be in a week's time.
A movement caught my eye from the direction of the much quieter intersection to the north. It was a human-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, riding a scooter uphill.
I gave my head a shake, and decided it was high time to go home, where we took in the pumpkins and drew the blinds.
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