The street is lined with skeletons and American flags. Number 50 on Hannah Lane especially; adorned with giant spiders and spiderwebs, a family of jack-o'-lanterns, another of werewolves. One waited for me between two trees, scared me shitless. I was watching a passing car. A crow cawed over me.
I am a visitor. I am supposed to make myself feel at home, which I'm finding harder and harder these days. It seems I've spent too much time believing that home is a person or people. I don't think that's true anymore.
It's too warm here and my body doesn't know what to do with that. Before long I'll get out of this sun and back to what I know and I'm wondering if by then it will be too late. I'll stay inside sweaters and get my blood back to a good thickness. One day the skin will follow.
They do it up right here. I'll give them that. Ghosts hang from most trees. Banshees. The spirit of the thing. "Skull-de-sac." Ha ha ha.
That beautiful bonfire aroma hangs in the breeze, the evidence of local devastation. So much local devastation, in fact, one might think it indicates a broader problem. Maybe if something happening here is everywhere it requires more than sympathy. But I am also quite happy to pretend the neighbors are burning a very old Christmas tree.
They tell me about the kids, how Mischief Night is coming soon. We never had that growing up, I say. It's great, they tell me. You throw toilet paper in trees, throw eggs at houses, break plastic forks off in people's yards. Oh, I say, that happened to my neighbor growing up, I just assumed it was because the other kids didn't like him. No, they laugh, everyone does it. It happens to everyone. But I never did, and it never happened to me. I just waited around for the candy.
