Who couldn’t love
a fat orange ball,
its innocent plumpness?

Rippled flesh
the colour of leaves
the colour of cheese.

All the rage in October
but in November,
punctured, sunken. . .

Exccerpt from “Pumpkin,” by Theresa Muñoz

So much happens inside the house, this time of year. I hear dinner and after dinner play time, and so much life in the house while I am in group, paying attention to writers and writing, and the act of communing around writing, having all of it at once. Activity all around. My group is so rich tonight. And my hour with a client on her manuscript, earlier in the day, as well. Starting the day with a bit of hurry-ness. My swim in the indoor pool, a good one, a rush to the Social Security office in the next town to get there by opening so I won’t have to wait too long. And I don’t wait long. Last week taxes to do. This week, apply for Medicare, the turning 65 ritual. Charlie’s walk comes mid-day, and he’s impatient. My daughter and I take him. First, a stop in the garden to visit the pumpkins. A birthday party for my grandson is being planned to take place in the garden of October. And this week, on Friday, my youngest planning an event for him and friends, gathering for another story and a celebration of fall with apples, apples, apples. The woods are still quite damp. Late afternoon, the sun comes out. I talk with my brother today. We talk of the pond, of our swims, of our plans for swims. Next week the days will warm again. Best pumpkin year ever, my daughter says, about the garden. Two October birthdays coming in this household before Halloween. I do love October, the plump orange juiciness of October and the seeds inside the “rippled flesh” of this birthday month coming.