What one loves never really leaves. Happy Hallowtide, all!
🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁
The garden bathed in silver moonlight, pumpkin vines coiling beneath fresh soil. Sandra’s fingers ran along the cool skin of a pumpkin–it throbbed, as if in a dream.
Old Sebastian had said that they grew best near Hallowtide–when the Earth recalled
the names of those within them.
She edged closer to the ground, her eyes on a flicker of light sparking deep within. For a second, she believed it was her reflection. Then, the pumpkin–
Smiled.
Her grandmother’s smile.
Tender.
Knowing.
Sandra teared, not with sadness, but knowing–
That nothing she loved ever truly left.
It grew again—sprouting different vines.
🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 