Tag Archives: Pumpkin

Courage at Twilight: Pumpkins on the Porch

Dad suggested we bring home Café Rio for dinner.  I suggested we pick up some pumpkins on the way.  He protested that it was too early in the season, that they would just rot if we bought them now.  I countered that if we bought them in a month they would have sat at the store for that month instead of prettily on their porch, and opined that the pumpkins would not rot until after the first hard freeze.  He conceded the point.  I parked at Lowes in a handicapped stall with direct line-of-sight to the pumpkin boxes, holding the pumpkins up one by one for Mom and Dad to give me the thumbs up or down for each.  We left with four: traditional orange, wrinkled red, white with cream cycle splotches, and a deep green with skin lobed like a brain.  At Café Rio, I stood Mom’s four-footed cane in the line.  Mom and Dad sat at a table near the menu so I could explain their dinner options.  The lady ahead of us moved the cane with her as the long line progressed, to keep our spot.  Mom chose the roast beef burrito, and Dad the roast beef salad.  Mom hinted she would like a tres leches for dessert, and Dad entreated for a key lime pie (diabetes be damned).  “I’m worn out just from sitting there waiting,” Dad sighed as we walked slowly to the car.  He had forgotten his cane, and so leaned on my shoulder instead.  Back at home, Mom and I arranged the pumpkins festively on the front porch before settling into TexMex and Netflix.

Smashed

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I have lived alone for 1 year now: 52 weeks: 365 days.  The highlight of my life is to see my children.  They grew a gorgeous garden this year, and shared with me their harvest: sweet corn; swiss chard; cucumbers.  And a pumpkin.  Their front porch is adorned with two dozen perfect orange pumpkins.  Hyrum and Hannah offered me one, perfectly round, with a spiraling stem. The pumpkin reminded me of them each night when I came home from work.  It looked so cute sitting by the front door, until one evening I found it smashed on the rocks.

SMASHED

To Whoever
smashed my pumpkin:
I wondered
how long
my pumpkin would survive
you.

Not long.

My little daughter
raised this pumpkin
in her garden.

I love her.
I do not get to see her much.
I miss her.

So, I set by my door
her pumpkin, my pumpkin.
It reminded me of her.

I dared to hope
you would let it be.
But you smashed
my little girl’s
pumpkin.

(PS.  She gave me another yesterday.  One can hope.)