Every Halloween, Mummy makes chocolate pumpkin bread. Every year, I come home to comforting cinnamon. Warm and sweet, with a sharp edge, like cough medicine.
I tiptoe through the front garden, past the glowing pumpkins and into the hall filled with ghosts, bats and spiderwebs.
I can hear Mummy in the kitchen and imagine her smiling as she stirs the thick brown spiced dough.
When I walk in, she is laying the pumpkin seeds and leftover chocolate chips on top of the loaf.
The oven has made our small kitchen very hot, and the counters are covered in mixing bowls and spice jars.
I creep up behind Mummy and hug her. She smiles. It’s our annual treat. Every Halloween, she makes chocolate pumpkin bread and every year we hug right before she puts it in the oven.
Daddy walks in, kisses her and starts returning the jars to the spice rack.
‘Ah, cinnamon,’ he says. ‘That smell. That’s how you know it’s autumn.’
‘We’ll need to get more before Christmas,’ she replies, filling the sink with soapy water. ‘There won’t be enough for my special reindeer macarons.’
I won’t be able to come back at Christmas. The veil is too thick by midwinter.
I love you, Mummy and Daddy, and I’ll see you again next year.
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