I am a survivor of satanic abuse. As a child, Halloween was a time of horrific cult rituals. Twenty-five years ago, my repressed memories exploded into my consciousness.
Until the past two years, Halloween has created angst in my life. Last night, I wanted to turn off my lights and pretend I wasn't home. However, four of my grandchildren had other ideas. After school, with parents in tow, they arrived on my doorstep in full costume. I enjoyed their anticipation of their upcoming candy hall and relented.
After the children were on their merry way, I drove to the grocery store and purchased a large bag of assorted candies. My attitude had changed, and I looked forward to seeing the children in their regalia.
Soon, my doorbell was ringing. Often, accompanied by parents, there were small, timid children, of Spanish, Asian or African descent. I relished their diversity and the obvious effort the parents had expended for the event.
Making a big haul, the pre-teens were having a whooping, good time. They had yet to be jaundiced by puberty.
After the last reveler had vacated my street, I was smiling. The children's joy was catching. I was glad I had joined the party.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment