Halloween scared me. For the past nineteen Halloweens, I’ve hid in the darkness, not wanting to greet eager trick-or-treaters with faux surprise and candy bar rewards. I’d sit in my living room clutching memories of a young boy who fell sick three days before Halloween 1991. This boy, now a man of 27, occupies my thoughts, visits me in my dreams; he speaks to me with a voice I’ve not heard in nineteen years. He calls me, “Dad.”  I cry out to him, “Son.” Nineteen years...

The coming of autumn always triggered a knowing that as October’s days dwindled towards November, a darkness, not created from turned off lights, would envelop me, empty my soul of life and want. Each falling leaf signaled a renewed descent into depression; the stars brilliant in the indigo sky became dim through my tears. My prayers fell on a deity’s silent ears: a bargain offered — my life for my son’s health — was never accepted, never realized.  I felt a failure; I couldn’t protect my son from the illness that robbed him of his Halloween, robbed him of his ability to speak, his basic desire for food. I couldn't figure out the combination, unlock the biological nightmare that is his life.

Outside my home, a brilliant autumn sun warms the day. The oranges, reds and yellows that blanket the landscape are breathtaking. There is no dread in the air, no dread approaching me. A woman’s love can offer many things; the woman I love has proffered understanding. In eleven days, she will celebrate Halloween with her son, there will be no darkened room for me to withdraw to, no darkened room for me again to debate fate. I will welcome this emotional reprieve. My son will be in every young trick-or-treater who rings my doorbell and receives from me their candy treats. I will smile. I will feign surprise and horror. I will look up to the brilliant stars with a new understanding: a father’s love for his son is forever. This I will tell my son during our next visit. Happy Halloween.