By Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
Copyright 2011 by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
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Baba told me to get rid of the pumpkin. I should have listened to her.
A week past Halloween it began to sweat a sickening amber juice. Really, I meant to throw it out. But the eyes I had spent so long carving stared back at me as if intelligence lurked behind that gaze.
They watched me as I raked the leaves in November. Every time I intended to throw the pumpkin on the compost pile, I found myself forgetting. An hour later, busy with some other task, I’d remember and decide to give the rotting thing another day’s grace.