I am not the kind of person who likes Halloween. I loathe it. In Argentina we did not have this holiday. Sometime in the early 70s a couple of poor and very dirty boys rang our door bell to our little house in Arboledas, Estado de Mexico. They looked at me forlornly and said, “Danos nuestro jaloyn,” or “Give us our Halloween.” I was shocked to see that the incroaching American culture was now close to home. I may have given them the coins they wanted. Probably, now in retrospect, I would think that the coins were sugar-free.
Once in Canada, and living in Burnaby, in the mid to late 70s I have almost fond memories of my daughters, Ale and Hilary coming into the house all wet because of the bitter rain outside with their booty. It was then that I told Rosemary that I was not going to answer the door. Until last year and including it, few showed up at Halloween. Rosemary was not well by then as she died a a month later on December 9. I did not answer the door.
I feel both ashamed and sad about my Halloween attitude. I am making up for it by now doing all the things that Rosemary did for us like taking out the garbage, cleaning the cats’ kitty litter box, paying our bills and all those other activities that I was either too stupid to understand or unwilling to do.
Tomorrow Halloween, I know I will have few knocks on the door. I will turn off the lights and not open the door. This monster will be upstairs on the bed thinking of my Rosemary and how Halloween and Christmas were activities that were intimately part of her life.
I will not take out the Christmas decorations or buy a Christmas tree.
I do not have the heart.