So I go over to my brother’s house. I can see his Christmas tree lights through the window as I pull up. I get out of the car and as I walk up to the porch, with the “Bring on the Blizzard” happy snowman sign, there it was. I was totally shocked. My own brother?! It was undeniable. The proof was sitting there, right in front of me on the top step, an eerie Christmas-light glow reflecting off the slick orange surface. My kin. My blood. A Halloween-Pumpkin-Keeper.
Surely, I thought, there must be some explanation. This is where he had installed his hidden home video surveillence camera? Santa’s reindeers secretly like to eat rotted two-month-old pumpkin? No, what was I doing. You can’t cover up the problem. He didn’t even try – not even a Santa hat thrown casually on top of it. Nothing.
I just prayed that once I got inside I wouldn’t find the tree decked out in ghosts and goblins. Aside from the obvious Halloween candy dumped into a festive Baby Jesus bowl, everything else was okay.
Still, it’s a shame I can never talk to him again.