When October arrives, it brings in magic. At least it does for me. I’m always a little sad when October departs (in no small part because my excuse to walk around in an outlandish dress must be packed away into the dark) though all is not lost. Christmas with its lights and ornaments is coming.
So, as we pass through this last full October night, I think of my mother.
There’s no grave to visit. That’s one of the beautiful things about cemeteries. You have a designated place to go and leave flowers. Sometimes I wish I had that. Now, in my daylight and sensibility heart, I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits. But in my heart that resides between October and the anniversary of my mother’s passing in November, anything seems possible.
My mother talked about ghosts. She spent the night in a cemetery once, and she told me about seeing lights in certain rooms of the house she shared with her boyfriend. What did she really see? Ghosts? Reflections? Illusions? Something we have not dreamt of in our philosophy?
Some people don’t see ghosts. They see birds or butterflies in key places at key moments, and they know a loved one is sending a message from wherever their spirits reside. Perhaps the message comes in a flower petal or feather, in something that catches the eye.
It feels impossible even though my mother was always brutally honest with me and throughout my childhood she seemed the most practical person on the planet. I wish she were here to ask. I believed her in everything.
On this October night, this Halloween, this time of costumes and sweets and scares, I’d like to hum a tune I used to hear my mother sing and pour her a cup of coffee with plenty of creamer. I’d like to think I hear the movement of the veil.
Halloween is magical, y’all.
But when October leaves, it doesn’t take the magic with it. The magic is here between us and them. It’s memory and love.
Thanks for reading.