The Porch Light

The morning after Halloween, I found a paper mask caught under my gate.

One eye was torn. The elastic had snapped. I picked it up and stood there with it in my hand. Then I put it in the bin.

The pumpkin was still on the step. Its mouth had begun to sag. Inside, the candle had burned down to a lump of wax. Sweet wrappers lay along the pavement. A strip of fake cobweb hung from the fence.

I had liked the night before. All Hallows’ Eve. I had filled a bowl with sweets and switched on the porch light. Each time someone knocked, I opened the door and held out the bowl. I did not have to think of anything to say.

Between knocks, I stayed near the door. From there I could see the pumpkins along the street. I liked knowing which houses would still have their lights on when I looked out again.

Later, I stood in the hall waiting for another knock. None came. I washed the bowl and put it away. I left the porch light on.

I told myself I had forgotten it.

I often do things like that. I hear a car slow down outside and look toward the window. I put water in the kettle for two cups, though I only need one.

I wish I could tell you exactly what I miss. Sometimes I picture a kitchen with a worn patch in the floor, a radio on the windowsill, rain against the glass. I cannot tell whether I lived there or have just pictured it so often that I can almost find the light switch.

I want a Saturday morning with no boxes waiting to be unpacked. To know which drawer holds the scissors. To walk to the corner without finding another window covered in newspaper. I try to put a year to it. I cannot.

On November first, All Saints’ Day, I went for a walk.

I passed a church but did not go in. Before leaving the house, I had been reading about Lapu-Lapu, Black Hawk, and Grand Duchess Elisabeth, whom they called Ella. Each time I looked up, I checked the window. On the walk, I kept returning to what I had read.

That morning I had pressed the latch until my thumb hurt. Then I let go and stepped back. On the walk, I pictured Lapu-Lapu on the shore at Mactan as Magellan’s Spanish forces approached. In my mind, he stayed where he was. Then I thought of Black Hawk going back to his people’s ancestral land. I pictured his foot coming down on ground he knew. At the next corner, I stopped with one foot off the kerb. In that kitchen I kept picturing, I could cross the threshold without looking. Here, I waited for one car to pass, then another.

Ella stayed with me longer. I pictured her in the hospital, holding one end of a sheet while someone held the other. I could not quite see her face. The sheet sagged between them. Then they lifted it and brought the corners together.

The night before, after washing the bowl, I had tried to fold the tea towel in the air. I held two corners, but the other end hung against my knees. I laid it on the counter and brought the edges together. Now, as I walked, I pictured the person opposite Ella lifting their end of the sheet. Where she had another pair of hands, I had used the counter. The damp towel was still beside the sink.

Then I passed the bakery on the corner. Newspaper covered the windows. I slowed down before I remembered it had closed. I used to stop there on the way home.

My phone was in my pocket. There are numbers in it I have not called for years. Some belong to people who have died. Others belong to people who moved away. I still scroll past their names.

At home, I put the kettle on. I took out my mug, then reached toward the chipped one behind it. I stopped and shut the cupboard.

There was a borrowed book on the shelf. I had promised to return it weeks ago. Beside it, my phone showed a message I had read but not answered. I had typed, “We should catch up,” and left it unsent. I had not checked when I was free.

I opened the calendar and found an afternoon. I put it in the message, then held my thumb above the send button. I nearly deleted it. I read it once more and pressed send before I could change my mind.

After that, I took down the fake cobweb. It caught on my sleeve. I pulled it off a little at a time and put it in the bin.

On November second, All Souls’ Day, I went to the cemetery.

I had no particular grave to visit. I had brought no flowers or candle. At the gate, I nearly turned back. Then I went in.

There was damp soil along the paths. Flowers leaned against the stones. I stopped beside a candle in a glass jar. The flame moved when the wind came through the trees.

I read the name on the stone. Then the dates. I did not know this person. I stood there for a minute anyway.

At a bend in the path, I stopped. I had expected a bench beneath the tree. There was no bench. I could not remember whether I had seen one here or in another cemetery. I stood by the tree a little longer, then went on.

I did not pray. I walked slowly and read a few more names under my breath. At one grave, a fallen leaf covered part of the lettering. I brushed it away.

On the way home, I put my hands in my pockets. There was still a sweet wrapper in one of them. I carried it to the bin outside my gate.

I threw out the pumpkin and swept the step. The wax stuck to the stone. I scraped it off, stopped when my fingers got cold, then went inside to run them under warm water.

I checked my phone. No reply yet. I put it down.

The borrowed book was still on the shelf. I put it beside my keys so I could take it with me tomorrow.

By late afternoon, I had switched on the kitchen light and started making supper. I took a plate from the cupboard. Just one. I set it on the table with a fork and a glass of water.

I ran my thumb along a scratch in the tabletop. For a moment, I wanted the old radio there, beside my plate. I wanted to turn a dial instead of choosing something on my phone. I had looked for that radio before. I was no longer sure which one I meant.

I went back to the stove and stirred the food. It needed another minute.

I turned off the stove and carried my plate to the table. The scratch was still there. So were the cupboard with the chipped mug and the book beside my keys. I put my glass down carefully, away from the edge.

Before I sat down, I stopped at the porch-light switch. I left my hand beside it for a moment. There were no more sweets in the bowl. I had checked my phone, and nobody had replied. I switched the light on anyway.

This time, I knew I had done it.