Octobers

Halloween, 1989. A freshman in college, hundreds of miles from home, freshly dumped by my high school girlfriend and, subsequently, a gaping, open emotional wound. My first campus Halloween party offers the promise of respite, loud music, frenzied dancing, and the possibility of losing myself - if only for a few hours - in the arms of another.

I spend the evening alone, standing on the edge of the room. Waiting for magic to happen.

Halloween, 1994. Young men in their first apartment. Another party. Strangers. Cases upon cases of beer. The aroma of cigarettes and... other... drifting in from the porch. So many faces I will never know. The pulse of the music drowning out half-hearted attempts at conversation. Connections failing to be made. Waiting for the fun to begin. Waiting for the night to end.

Halloween, 1999. My new wife and I sit in our new apartment. We are two months removed from a transcontinental move. Just over a month removed from our wedding. Less than two weeks removed from the funeral of a girl I'd known for twenty-five years. Outside, we hear revelers in the streets — students from BU and Northeastern, waiting for the T, streaming to and from Ana's Taqueria. Trying to lose themselves in celebration and wasted energy.

We sit together on our futon. Drained. Losing ourself in flickering images on a screen. We have nothing left to give.

Halloween, 2004. The doorbell rings, and I step to the front door. Three children stand before me in various stages of ghoulery, inspiring terror and demanding sacrifice. I happily acquiesce, bending to their will, laying tribute before them in a bowl glittering with pumpkin-orange peanut butter cups and thick ropes of red licorice. In my other hand, I hold our son: he is 18 months old, and clearly bewildered by this orgy of costumes and candy.

"Do you see them, buddy?" I ask. His eyes are huge with something approaching wonder. The children thank me, and I close my front door gently behind them as they go. My wife calls from our kitchen; she is newly pregnant with twins, although we do not yet realize it, and wants to know what we saw. "Three kids," I say.

Halloween, 2009. Or two nights before, more accurately. I am putting my twin daughters to bed. I whisper to them both, each in their turn: "Go to sleep, and dream happy dreams. Because tomorrow is going to be an awesome day. Tomorrow I'll take you to school, and you can wear your costume, and then you'll have your Halloween parade." And they ask if their brother is having his Halloween parade, too. And I tell them, yes. Yes, he is. And they ask if they can wear their princess dresses in the car, under their jackets. And I tell them, yes. Yes, you can. And then I'll stay, and watch the parade.

I say: I will stand at the edge of the room, and watch you both as you walk tall and proud, princess and fairy princess, parading from the room and through the school with your friends and monsters. And I see them smiling at me in the dark, aglow with joy and anticipation. Waiting for magic to happen.