A Witch’s Work Is Never Done

Halloween is upon us and as usual, it’s cold and windy, nasty and sleety. Terrible weather for taking the old broom out for a ride. Above the roof line, it’s colder than my witch’s heart, especially when flying at speed. But needs must when this devil drives. Hee hee hee.  

It’s tough to keep that slim silhouette against the yellow moon—black robe streaming, hat pointed back by the wind, body leaned forward, beaky nose leading—when under the robe you’re wearing thick fleece pants and a winter-weight down jacket zipped to the lips. No matter—I’ll be flashing by too fast for anyone to notice. Wool scarf wrapped twice around my neck, ends left loose to fly back; under the witch hat, heavy knit cap pulled down over ears and forehead; fleece-lined leather gloves, wool socks and fleece-lined winter boots. Everything black, of course. Dressed to kill. Hee hee hee.

Turn off all the house lights. No treatsies here! Just tricksies. Hee hee hee. Turn on the garage heater, inflate the air mattress, leave it in the middle of the garage floor, and call the kitty. Lucifer! Lucifer! Come here, sweet Lucy. She slinks onto the mattress, curls into a black comma, and blinks her glowing green eyes before lowering her head onto crossed front paws. Slipping the garage door opener into a pocket as the door rolls up, I cackle, Be bad! throw a leg over the broom, and rocket out into the blustery night, garage door rumbling closed behind me. Gotta give the kiddies the creepies! Hee hee hee!

Ignoring the icy bite of the wind, I shoot up up up the sky while looking down for a cluster of heads moving from house to house. Yes! A group of tiara-ed princesses and black cat girls, ninja turtles and pokeman. I dive bomb them at full throttle— I see YOU my pretties!—turning at the last minute to sweep over their little heads. They screech and scatter, dropping their bags of sweeties. A bit of fun for us old shut-ins! Hee hee hee!  

Irresistible! Impossible to pass up. Well worth the price of swooping into the warm garage hours later frozen solid, broom hovering over the air mattress as I swivel heavily upside down, unable to release my locked legs and clawed hands from the stick.

The heat massages with magic fingers. I drop like a block of ice—thump!—onto my back, limbs slowly thawing open into the yoga corpse pose, Lucy sprawled on top of me. See you next year, my pretties…. Hee hee hee…. Zzzz….

 

 

Daniela Gitlin, M.D. is the author of Practice, Practice, Practice: This Psychiatrist’s Life

 

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