All Hallows’ Eve
Gavin Lee
Riding to the pool, I look over my shoulder, peering at the setting blue moon. It’s pitch black out, not a soul around. Everything is quiet. We pass by friends’ homes with dark windows. And then several blocks later, two bright rectangles of light appear, flung out and stretched on the lawn of one house.
On deck, orange moonlight glows between silhouetted trees. The pool seems to hover in the darkness. I suddenly remember: it’s Halloween. The mood is subdued perhaps because it’s still quite early, so dark I could swear it was the middle of the night. No one says a word. It feels as though we’re all in our own worlds. Bodies appear more vulnerable, shadows against the illuminated pool. Clothes are shed and there’s something almost ceremonial about it. It’s a cold morning, hard to be nearly naked. Shivering, I take a step and jump in, thrilled that the water’s a great temperature. I’m awake instantly, a sharpness takes hold of me when seconds ago I was still drifting elsewhere. The sky very gradually lightens as if it’s opening. Coming up for air, through the sound of splashing water, I catch fragments of the dawn chorus.
Later I remember the Celtic origins of Halloween, the belief that it was a time when boundaries between worlds of the living and the dead thinned, blurred and spirits could pass easily into ours. In the water, other boundaries for me are blurred between dreaming and waking.
… L
