Every time it changes.
Every time, it's the same.
Every time, it begins with the wind in the trees.
The pumpkins appeared as I blinked, it seemed. I hear Mother talking about how now, now it's not just "pumpkins" anymore. It's orange pumpkins and white pumpkins. And, though she doesn't know it, the plastic kind, I suppose, but we don't deal with them. Here.
The wind caresses the back of my neck. A gentle touch, to remind me that he's there, waiting. It's been a long time, for him. That hand made of wind grips stronger, teasing. Reminds me he's there, waiting. Such a long time. Though it seems like I barly blinked.
The summer rains haven't left yet. The heat is still here.
But so is he.
The energy flows north, strong. Yes, we will hold it, to be released by the laughing smiles of the jack 'o lanterns. We will hold it for you.....