January is, perhaps, the strangest time on the countdown to Halloween. The classic cliche of "so close, yet so far." So hopeful, yet so hopeless. Sure, we can now say "this Halloween"...but it feels further away than ever, as all the remnants of last Halloween have gone for good.
November hurts, because the countdown resets then. So many days, weeks, months to go until the world transforms again. An entire year. And yet, it somehow doesn't seem so far away, as the sky clouds over in mourning and the remaining decorations, maybe forgotten, maybe triumphant, move in a sudden breeze as if to say, "It did happen. It was real."
These little scraps of leftover Halloween are the strangest combination of sadness and hope. It feels so far away, yet so close at the same time. As if the door hasn't shut quite yet.
If December doesn't slam the door in your face, though, January certainly does. Any stray pumpkin that may have survived November, Thanksgiving, even Christmas, has now most definitely been discarded. The signs that Halloween ever existed, ever happened a few short (?) months ago, diminish more and more by the day. It's like trying to remember a dream. It fades a little more, the longer you're awake.
I remember the feeling of taking a walk on the evening of October twenty-ninth. It felt like being in a movie, as if I were someone the camera was panning past in the opening sequence of Trick 'r Treat, a bystander who may or may not be on the way to getting caught up in a spooky adventure. I remember the atmosphere, and the surprises. The leaves crunching under my feet. The inspiring decorations. The ghosts dancing in a slow, ominous circle around the house across from the abandoned beach. The Stranger Things theme music emanating from a party somewhere, as someone on a megaphone called out spooky trivia questions. I thought about turning around, about running toward the sound and perhaps impressing a houseful of people with my knowledge of all things spooky and scary and Halloween-y. But of course, I didn't, figuring it wouldn't matter to most of these people in a couple of days, most likely. Most people only are impressed by the "spooky friend" in October. Most people can't see a reason past November 1st, when what the layman refers to as "spooky season" comes to an end.
And come to an end, it did. A week or so later, I walked the same route, and most of the spooky sights were, sadly, gone. The ghosts that once danced across from the abandoned beach were disposed of so perfectly, I started to wonder if I'd dreamt them. The tall pumpkin man who stood on a staircase among purple lights, disappeared without a trace. But some of them stayed. The feeling stayed. Perhaps spookier than before was the blank-faced ghostly woman I must have taken a hundred pictures of prior to Halloween. The skeleton with his arm up in greeting, now appeared to be calling, "Hey, over here! Do you remember me? Can you see me?" And I don't know if he knew I could see him, but I definitely felt seen by him.
It was like we all melded together on that morning; the half-broken remnants of a season treated like a fever dream.
So close, yet still so far. Almost an entire year before anyone would look at us, really look at us, again.
As time went on, more and more of these decorations disappeared. Only a few withered pumpkins managed to remain for Christmas; forgotten in parts of the yard that were untouched by the mechanical glow of fairy lights. Some stood tall while others started to decay. It's such an interesting contrast, the bright, blinding lights of Christmas, next to the forgotten rot of a pumpkin left behind, displaced from his season. I often compare those pumpkins to myself, during the holiday times.
"Cheer up, Christmas is coming!" I've heard it so many times. It didn't work even when I believed in Santa Claus. There is no consolation for the loss of Halloween, the pain of it feeling further and further away even as it gets closer. A pumpkin is still a pumpkin, rotted and standing, or trying to, at least, in the shadow of a fancy, light-up distraction.
But when Christmas passes, it takes the very last of Halloween with it. As the folks who spent hours building their not-quite-winter wonderlands tear them down, they notice the pumpkins, and for most, their time is up. For most people, January is supposed to be a desolate time. It's as if any memory of the things that brought them happiness not long ago, have to go. Have to leave us with the emptiness of a cold, dark winter, because everyone knows winter isn't supposed to be any fun.
I think about all of this, as I walk that same route again on a January afternoon. It's unseasonably warm, but cloudy enough to be spooky. I miss the little signs that Halloween was. I walk with my phone in my hand, in case one of my little remaining friends shows up, but they don't. It's a beautiful day, but something is missing. We've made it to the other side of the Halloween countdown, and yet...it feels so forgotten. What if it never happened? What if that feeling will never come again?
And suddenly, I hear a noise. I think it's footsteps behind me. It sounds like someone is about to jog past. I turn, still not used to having this many neighbors, prepared to slow myself just enough to let the person run by me, and I see that it isn't a person at all.
On the ground behind me is a small patch of leaves, orange and dry, blowing in the wind, in such a way that they're skittering across the road, sounding exactly like footsteps.
And I realize, in that moment, that Halloween is always following close behind me. Sometimes its footsteps are more quiet than others, but it never stops.
And I'm never alone, as long as I have that. Calendar be damned, Halloween is always on its way.
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