October.

The sound of children playing floats through the open windows after dinner. Garbage cans roll to the curb in the morning dew and the smell of nutmeg fills the house. 

October is that perfect moment between summer’s last gasps and winter’s chilly grasp, when nights are cozy in their crispness and hands are held tighter. Horizons catch fire as leaves fade to gold and auburn and orange and autumn wreaths welcome you home. The boys of fall light up Friday nights while the girls dream of being homecoming queen.  Fires begin to crackle in the fireplace and pumpkins grin fiendishly in windows.

I hate October.

Now before you get your jack-o-lantern-maple-syrup-beer-swigging-fall-color-lovin’-and-I-was-born-in-October panties in a twist, hear me out. I used to love October. Every cozy-sweater-first-snow-black-cat-and-mug-of-cider minute of it.

But now I am answering questions about whether or not Daddy resembles the decaying mass erupting from the dirt in your yard against a display of crumbling faux grave markers.

I fend off their excitement as they campaign to create a display of grave markers for the man we have lost, all the while imagining what the letter from the homeowners association would say if I had given in to their demands for a permanent tombstone in the front yard. When the doorbell rings and it’s our turn to pass the neighborhood “boo” I think only of the doorbell in the night to sign official paperwork. Walking to the mailbox, I wonder how many of them ask about the ones left behind in the house on the corner. I dread the emails and phone calls checking in, as much as I need them to reassure me that he has not been forgotten.

But none of that matters because right now it isn’t about skulls in the yard. It’s about squeezing into that red-lycra-pitchfork-tail-and-patent-heels costume.   

Because if I’m going to roast in the pits of hell, I need to be dressed appropriately.