Kenny and I stood on sidewalks and watched their black shadows: two little ears sticking up from a round body and long flowing skirts and scarves. One small and round, one tall and slender. They held out their orange pumpkin buckets. Sometimes we could just barely hear, "Trick or treat!" or "Thank you." Sometimes we heard Bud call out "Happy Halloween!" over his shoulder as they stepped off the porch. And our girl was always helping him up and down the steps, always watching over him, leading him, guiding him.
At one point I turned to Kenny and said, "Burn this moment into your memory." Their two black outlines stood patiently on an orange-lit porch, waiting with buckets, ready to say, "Trick or Treat!"
You can't photograph that: the cold night, Bud shouting to us, "I got more candy!", the grain elevator above us silent and eternal on the darkening horizon, and how it all goes so fast.
Wasn't our girl just Dorothy with sparkly red shoes, too shy to even say the words, trick or treat, on a dark night under the spotlight of a stranger's porch? And this night she's a gorgeous gypsy dancer, her long hair touching her waist.
Later at home, she took the kerchief off her head and her hair flowed like her dress and her wide sleeves. She looked like a Spanish dancer, like the hostess of the manor as she answered the last of the trick-or-treaters at our door.
It all goes so fast.
I love my husband, and I love our children, and our quiet lives under burning Maples and the Halloweens that line up one by one and the small silhouettes of flowing scarves and tiny ears that last only for a second.
--from my notebook, October 2007