Grace stumbles over vines in the pumpkin patch, inspecting each gourd with childlike authority. She bends over each and appraises it, with one hand on her hip.
“This one’s got a weird back.” she says.
“You know, nobody’s gonna see the back.” I tell her, but she ignores me and continues.
“This one’s too tall, and the stem’s grey” she judges, and continues along the row.
“Hey, I’m tall and grey.” I joke at her, but she does not respond.
She looks down at another.
“This one looks good.” I say. “It’s round, and pretty clean, and-”
She prods it with a dried stem and it collapses into a sickly sweet smelling mush.
Hours pass, and I watch in envy as other children pick the biggest pumpkins they can carry before leaving.
“I blame your mother for this, you know.” I call to her behind me. “She always was such a perfectionist.”
Grace does not respond, and I turn to her. She gazes into a bush, enamored by a gourd within. We push the tangle of vines aside and examine.
“It’s perfectly round, and just the right size, and very clean...“ she lists.
“More than that.” I think to myself. “It’s gorgeous.” This is the pumpkin that artificial pumpkins are modeled after.
She pats it with her hand, and I wince. It responds with a pleasant, fresh, hollow echo.
She turns to me and smiles. “This one.”
I sever its stem and cradle it in my arms as we head off to make the purchase.
For several days, the pumpkin adorns our dining table as a centerpiece. I am often distracted from my dinner by its perfection. Grace often has to wave her hand in front of my face.
“Huh? Oh, what is it, sweetie?”
“Carve it? Well, uh, we don’t want to carve it too early, do we? Or else, it’lll rot.”
Her eyes sink. “Okay.” She takes her plate to the sink and goes to her room.
Every day, Grace asks about the pumpkin. Every day, I lie to her again.
“We wouldn’t want the squirrels to get it, would we?”
“What if someone takes it and smashes it?”
“It might scare the baby down the street.”
On and on, excuse after excuse, until Halloween morning. That day, I wake up to Grace and the pumpkin sitting on top of me.
“Daddy, we have to carve it today, or else it will be too late!” She shouts, arms crossed and cheeks puffed.
“M’kay fine.” I mumble in my sleepy stupor.
She breaks into a wide grin and dashes off to the kitchen. I nearly fall back asleep before jolting awake and tearing after her.
She’s placed the pumpkin on a set of newspapers on the floor. To the left, a knife lies gleaming in the sunlight.
“Uh, you can’t… use a knife without adult supervision.” I blurt.
She looks at me. “Well, you’re here now.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Go ahead.” I wipe sweat off my brow and kneel next to her.
She brings the knife down to the perfectly smooth surface and closes an eye, mentally mapping out the face. As I see the muscles in her arm tense up, mine do too. Faster than I can stop myself, my arm whips out. The knife flew out of her hand and clattered onto the floor, dots of red decorating the blade. I reach out and touch her cheek. Her orange skin is still smooth and perfect. I grab her and hold her close in my arms. I tell her I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her again.
I look up and see someone sitting, hand to their cut face. It’s my daughter. My daughter Grace. The pumpkin topples out of my lap and onto the floor. I grab my child and hug her close and apologize a thousand times for how I hurt her.
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