A Life of Wonder

In the fall of ’98, Trevor and I decorated pumpkins for Halloween. Mom gave us paint, brushes, and two carving knives. I painted mine blue. That year I dressed as papa smurf, and the pumpkin matched my costume. Trevor painted his a dark red. He made the color by adding purple, and black, until the shade of red was just right. 

I painted my pumpkin with big, clumsy strokes. He was exacting with each stroke turning the pumpkin’s flesh the color of the layer beneath our skin.

“Do you like it? Do you get it?” He asked.

“Yea bro, yea.”  “Let’s do this,” he beckoned.

We grabbed our pumpkins and headed to the freeway overpass. Sometimes, we could see into the cars: laughing families, fighting families, families in costumes, or tired single men driving to nowhere. Watching them calmed me, like watching clouds.

Then terror.

A bone-cracking scream. From some animal place, Trevor screamed. His desperate and euphoric cries entered my ears, my nerve system, and my bones. As the minivan neared the overpass, he released his pumpkin.  The windshield broke. Trevor giggled joyfully. The car slammed into the tree.

“I did that,” he boosted. “I. did. that!” 

I’d like to say I helped that family, but I ran home through the forest I knew too well as fast as I could

. Mom was making Mikie Mac & Cheese. “Want some honey?” she asked. “No, I”m good, I’m good.”  “What happened to you hands?” she asked. I wanted to explain the red away, and I thought of every excuse and possibility: we hit a deer, had bloody nose, or Trevor cut himself…But before I could answer she said, laughing:  “They’re so blue.”