A colossal pumpkin in my arms, I stumbled into the house. Kicking toy cars, small, discarded shoes out of my path. I sat at the kitchen table. Knife in hand. Dreaming of a face to carve into the orange, glowing gourd. The blank skin of the pumpkin watched me. The silence of the house. It gave me nothing. I listened. Nothing. Silence. Silence.
The rumble of a car passed outside.
On the street. The sun set.
At the table, in darkness. I never did carve the pumpkin.