“Can you at least try to take this seriously?” your voice weasels through the ‘spooky, halloween’ playlist you put on, whiney and slightly mad.

“I am!” I defend myself, but it’s a weak plea of innocence. Especially since the evidence of my not taking this seriously is covering my hands. All orange and gooey, seeds stuck in between my fingers—it’s a bit gross. But how the hell else was I supposed to get it all out?!

When I verbalized that question, you tossed the little scooping device straight at my head. Oh.

I attempt to wipe my hands off into the bowl of collected gunk. You’re forcing me to save it because you swear you’re going to make something with the seeds later on. I think they’re going to sit in a bowl until Christmas.

You’re already so ahead of me in this process, knife in your hand as you carefully trace out your chosen design. I have no clue why you thought I’d be good at this like you are. It’s too meticulous and time consuming. I just wanna carve two eye holes and a half-moon and call it a day. I’m pretty sure you’re sketching out the Mona Lisa.

And, dammit, you look good doing it. Like pumpkin carving is your one true calling, a profession of yours. Hair pulled back in a low bun, tongue poking the inside of your cheek in your concentration, and my flannel wrapped around your arms to get you in the ‘fall spirit’. I’ve got pumpkin goop on my 5 year old t-shirt right now.

Sure, we might be doing this in the green room of a venue we’re playing tonight—because it’s the only time we could find do partake in classic fall fun—but you were determined. And you made it happen. Just like you always do. The least I could do is play along with your antics.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to make, sweetheart.”