They call me “Dad” like it’s my title, my name, like I’m some mythical creature who rises out of sleep on Halloween morning with a job to do, and I roll over, meet the eyes of three kids in costume. One, my medieval traveler; Two, a Reese’s candy pack with the crinkly edges;
and three, she’s the littlest of them all,a princess with a pink dress and even pinker running shoes, because princesses are swift these days. Their smiles are full of hope and expectation, and when they say “Trick or treat,” they mean it like a promise.
The oldest two are already out with their friends, my almost-men, who once stumbled around the block as chubby-footed toddlers, hands in mine, holding on for dear life, but tonight? Tonight, they’re solo, off finding themselves in the night’s misty glow. They say “Dad” like it’s a greeting card they’ve outgrown, and part of me aches at the thought, like I’m a ghost in my own home, wondering where the years slipped off to when I blinked or didn’t take enough photos, when I missed recording those simple breaths and smiles.
Reese’s Kid is in middle school now, and even he darts off, running with a friend down the street like a marathoner in orange and brown, leaving me and my wife to escort the last little crew – a princess, a traveler, a pack of neighbors – down streets that spark like campfires, porch lights like signals saying, “We’ve got buckets of candy! Stop by! Take as much as you like!”
As the sun dips low, the neighborhood springs to life, a parade of pint-sized monsters and caped crusaders, and I laugh at the simplicity. Some folks just sit there, a couple in lawn chairs, a big bowl of candy, a dog in a pumpkin suit. Others go all out, haunted house setups spilling onto the lawn, smoke machines, skeletons on swings, the smell of cider in the air.
These are the moments I carve deep into my memory, a day I claim every year as mine because soon enough, the costumes will stay in the box, the kids will outgrow “Trick or Treat,” and these blocks, these blocks we wander year after year, will lose their magic.
But tonight, tonight is a feast I savor, a day I devour whole. I pull my daughter close, feel the warmth of her tiny pink hand in mine, as she runs up to the next house with all her seven-year-old might, her voice a chorus of every child before her. “Trick or Treat!” echoing through the night like a promise finally kept.
And I stand back, this small grin on my face, knowing what I know, dreading what I dread, the years slipping away like shadows, like leaves drifting down. But tonight? Tonight, I’m right here, with all my ghosts, my little ones, my heart a bright lantern in the dark, and I swear I’m holding on to every last candy-crinkled, costume-draped, sweet, sweet step of it.