Forever Hallowed
There was a time when dressing up as a rabbit was the highlight of your year. You heard the final click of the sewing machine, put down your Pokemon cards, took your eyes off of PBS Kids and stared in awe at the fluffy white suit in your mother’s hands. You wore it for weeks in anticipation. You begged to wear it to school and were denied. When the big night finally came you cringed as your mother pinned your white tail to your fluffy rump, fearing it might poke into your real skin. Once your three whiskers, drawn with mom’s best eyeliner, were finished and your pink lipstick nose was applied, you were ready to hop down the bunny trail. Your sister, mummified with toilet paper, stood next to you for the picture. She then took your small hand in hers and led you to the first house because she’d done this before. As you toddled to keep up with her, your pumpkin-shaped candy bucket bobbed against your leg like a merry ghost. From the porch your mother watched you go, waving but not worrying. She knew you’d come back eventually.