Orange Imaginations

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I see orange, wax skipping white sheets, but smearing autumn over an open season. I see orange, and it is calm, but robust, rambunctious with a knife. Orange, the color, the crayon, my little pink fingers drawing pompous lines, connecting the mind’s eye. And then eyes, the orange lids like peelings from the skin. They are triangles, upside down like the madman’s costume, its fangs, the mouth wide, swallowing a melon of flame.

I see orange as I press hard. Chunks of wax fall off in my excitement. My friends giggle around me.

Grabbing for black, I tear down the paper wrapping, greased like last night’s pizza box, and tilt the stick at an angle to shade the sockets, to darken the depths of the throat. The color is sharp, more chunks, and then soft as I work my way in, leaving a shade pliable for a fine flick of yellow—then more orange.

I breathe, pull back, examine, and then dive in again; flames in my hand, crafting its shadow.

But again, I stop.

Yes, I’m done. I hold up the creation, my abecedarian devil, and observe. My pumpkin is complete.

A friend peers over my shoulder.

“He’s bald!”

“What?” I ask. Pride covers confusion.

“Where’s his hat?”

I blink, realize, recognize, and then notice. I grab for a dwindling green crayon, snapped in two like an autumn twig. I drawn on his hat, the green stem and a twisting vine wrapping around in a maze of youthfulness. My pumpkin.

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Photos

Where is He?
Selecting the Soul of Pat at the Suyumatsu Pumpkin Farm of Bainbridge Island.

The Coming of Patrick
Back to youth, thank God. Everyone needs to carve a pumpkin at least once a year.

His Birth
Mighty Patrick Star with fire in his mouth.