The siblings’ count meant Christmas should have reigned,
The undisputed crown, the prize attained.
And yes, that warmth held merit, soft and deep,
But there’s a secret that my spirit keeps:
I craved the shift, the night that felt unbound,
Where chaos and the sugar high were found.
Less the stiff pressure of tradition’s hold,
More a wild story in the autumn cold.
I still recall the puzzle of the years,
A memory that lingers and appears:
The kitchen counter, bright beneath the light,
Held the full bounty of a perfect night.
A silent pyramid, a treasury bold,
Kit Kats, Snickers—stories rich and old,
The jackpot waiting, banked upon the shelf.
Why trudge outside for smaller versions of itself?
To brave the porch light and the chilling air,
For fun-size wrappers we already bore,
Was illogic, plain and sharp and clear,
Yet in the quest, the meaning drew more near.
The ritual mattered more than what we sought,
The necessary mischief finely wrought.
The masks, the costumes, running dark and fast,
The joy of being spooked, that always lasts.
I loved the spectacle, the crafted fear,
The fake cobwebs draped on every hedge held dear.
The cardboard tombstone leaning by the walk,
The muffled whispers of the ghost tale talk.
And still, that passion for the dark remains:
Haunted houses, rattling chains,
And most of all, the picture on the screen,
The beautifully constructed, painted scene.
To seek the terror with delighted eyes,
To know the monster is a skilled disguise.
To welcome fright and feel the thrilling spike,
That safe pretense is what I truly like.
To face the darkness, knowing it’s all play—
That joyful, chaotic feeling never fades away.