October Houses

When I was a kid,
and summer was over,
and the chill in the air bit like an angry tortoise,
and the leaves turned orange and scarlet,
like they’d been burned from the inside out,
and the naked branches of the elm and oak
stretched like skinny ghouls
waiting for the children of the night,
Halloween was just around the corner,
and it took its time getting there.

I spent all year picking the costume.
One time—a bum with a plastic cigar
and a bent pork pie hat,
like I knew something about hard living.
My mom always said, watch the candy.
The world’s full of crazy people.
Razor blades in apples.
Poison in chocolate.
People smiling at the door,
grinning like killers.

So even then there was something off in it,
a small crack of fear running through the night.
Still, I went.
Cold air, a light rain slicking the streets.
That old orange moon hanging there,
like it was watching our every move.
Pillowcase getting full
with everything I thought I wanted.
Door to door,
running between houses,
taking it quick,
before it disappeared
or turned on me.
And it always came down to that last house.
Porch light flickering.
An old woman moving slow
like a decrepit witch.
Candy dropped in,
like she knew something we didn’t.

Then the long dark walk home.
Makeup smearing.
Sugar buzz wearing thin.
Wet to the bone.
I ran in the front door,
dumped it all on the floor,
spread it out
like proof I beat the night.
My mom checking pieces.
She didn’t trust the world
to leave a kid alone.
The next morning it was just candy.
Sometimes I’d trade my brother
a sucker for a piece of chocolate,
but the shine was gone.

I didn’t have the words back then,
but I felt it.
How everything bright comes with a shadow.
How even the good times make you cautious.
And how the last house isn’t just where it ends—
it’s where you realize, finally,
it was never going to last.

And the jagged night
turned into morning
way too fast.