October, Again

When October hits, the world seems to change.

We go from living our adult lives

to remembering.

The wet sidewalks beneath our feet,

the plastic pumpkins gripping tight in our hands,

the rustle of our clothes as we race up stairs,

searching for the next house to trick-or-treat.

Picking the ones that give out king-size bars.

Avoiding the ones that hand out toothbrushes.

Staying out well past curfew

for just one more house

further down the street.

Laughing as we drag our haul back home,

our treasures spilling out

as we root through the candy.

Trading pieces with family

for something we like better.

Don't like candy corn

That goes to my sister.

Brother hands me a Kit Kat,

and I flash a smile at him.

October becomes a place

where we are all kids again.

Reliving the same experience

now under a different lens.

I watch my own child do the same.

Rooting through her own trove of goodies,

bartering for how much candy

she can eat before bed.

I remember the words my father used

and smile as I say them back.

As much as your tummy can handle.

This will be our second year

of making that trade.

She knows now when she's had enough.

Two or three pieces,

then she stops herself.

And I watch her,

somewhere between the memory

of being the child

and the wonder of being the parent.

October becomes a place

where everything has changed,

and yet nothing has changed at all.

The sidewalks are still wet.

The candy still gets traded.

The laughter still follows us home.

Only the main characters have changed.