I came home to a decimated pumpkin - my pumpkin - lying on the front porch, orange against brick. A gaping wound, the contents of all it had ever produced that was both hopeful and yellow, spilling from itself. It was the squirrels who gnawed through its side, left only the empty shell of fall and its stuffing behind, tore off to find new victims. 
The insuperability of it is overwhelming to me. I chose this pumpkin because it was smaller than most; its curvy figure left room for me to place it against my hip as I walked through the pumpkin fields in upstate New York, like carrying a baby. I chose this pumpkin consciously. This was my pumpkin. What have I loved and lost?
John 14:27 is hanging on the refrigerator door.
No comments:
Post a Comment