This day sees me annually mourning the loss of a beloved mother, nine years ago, and strangely strange, our dear Aunt who also died a year ago.
I've always disliked the 31st October ever since my young children were traumatised by a witch mask peering in through the dining room window. So it intrigues me to see how trauma translates into tradition as my grandchildren scrape out the squishy innards of a pumpkin and watch as their mother carves out a gaping grin. I smile, as I hear of them dressing up for a brief interlude of after-dark trick or treating accompanied by one bumblebee-costumed Cockerpoo.
Different generation; different times.
This afternoon I picked the only tomato in my vegetable-free garden. Some months earlier, Joseph and I planted some wrapping paper that contained tomato seeds.
It looks like a charming green pumpkin.
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