Sunday, October 26, 2008



We didn’t carve pumpkins
that year – we were too young
or too old, stuck somewhere
in the gutter-line of growing up.
Instead we all piled in a pick-up,
headed north on Highway 11,
bumped and jerked our way
across potholes and through 4-ways
until we spotted signs
for Springville Haunted House.

It turned out to be nothing
more than a trail stalking its way
between whistling pines and shivering oaks,
path marked by signs slashed
with red paint and kids in masks
popping from behind bushes.
At the end, someone’s father
chased us with a chainsaw,
and by that time most of us
were coupled-up, arms over shoulders,
screams shrill but edged
with laughter.

You hung back alone,
hands tucked in tattered denim,
bare arms screaming against the cold.
In the parking lot I grabbed
your hand – to warm you, I said.
You didn’t even blink, just ran
with me back to the truck,
perfect fit of our fingers a sign

we might have noticed
if not for the ghost
gripping my other hand.

- Irene Latham

So here's a teen-angst remember-when poem just in time for Halloween... I love this time of year, ghosts and all.

"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet."

- Emily Dickinson

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