When we think of past Halloweens, it will be harder to remember the year he was eight–the year braces were stretching his teeth this way and that–the year it rained from every direction for 48 hours except between 6-8 p.m. when the clouds parted for the stars and dry children scrambled door to door.
But we’ll remember the gray box he wore. The one he and his sister painted and markered moments before dark settled over the neighborhood and the doorbell donged with overuse. And we’ll jog our memories with, “remember the year Silas was a refrigerator for Halloween?”
And someone will say, “oh yeah! I remember.”
And the boy, himself will tell how he hobbled from driveway to street, driveway to street until, in the first block, the top of his fridge box itched his head and how even with a pillow taped to the inside, he grew itchier until he couldn’t stand it, and how for the last few houses he trick-or-treated refrigerator-box-less because… because he didn’t care anymore. Just so long as that box wasn’t rubbing his head.
And we’ll sigh and say, “yeah…that was some Halloween.”