On the drive to Plant City, I ask you to be my navigator, and make sure you know that I only want to take the back roads.
It’s Halloween night and the temperatures are favorably crisp. The sky looks layered like a popsicle, soft blues, pale lavender, and a dusty pink. When we drive by a stretch of water we both react to the mirrored effect, along with the house for sale.
“Shall we buy that?” I say, as if we could. It sits on stilts and has a porch that wraps around its entire exterior. Why would they ever want to leave?
You read your latest chapters from your book. You make a dozen or so explanations before you start, like you always do, even if you don’t realize it. I pause you to say, “I need more theatrics. I need more acting.” And, “You know, I always said her name differently in my head, not Say-aura, but Sigh-aura.”
You say, “I like that better.”
We pass Trick-or-Treaters and I am transported back to my childhood self. A Minion who can’t walk too well, a father dressed as Shrek who stiffly waves, his big belly sticking out and his green face cracking us up. I wonder if they can see my skeleton makeup, if I crack them up too when I wave back.
At the party, we sit around a fire and tell stories. I scan everyone’s glowing faces, wrapped in blankets, a baby in a lap, the way most of them can sink into a chair, but I never can sink or relax unless I’m alone. You wander to talk to someone new, and I watch you do that thing where you listen more than you talk, and I love that.
We drive home through foggy streets, the trees bending toward the road, and a waxing gibbous gleaming at us. Cars pass us on the one lane road, but I don’t mind. You finish reading and you thank me for wanting to hear it, and I can’t help but think how sweet and lovely you are, on this spooky and beautiful Halloween night.
(Daily Writing 104)