The Door to the Pumpkin Patch

Commuting is like watching a TV show you’ve seen before. Knowing what’s coming means you let parts of it wash over you.  Essentially you ignore swaths and remark on the highlights.  Things are more conspicuous by their absence than by their presence.

Today, on what felt like the millionth day of my commute, with grey skies that didn’t merely threaten rain, I saw something different.

I was deep into my commute and still no one had taken the seat next to mine. When the bus came to a stop, I glanced out the opened door, not planning to remark on anything.  However, on the lawn in front of a real estate agency that had converted an old house rather than move into an actual office building, there were more than two dozen pumpkins spread about, as if it were a pumpkin patch.

Obviously, yesterday was Halloween, but somehow it still struck me as different. Maybe it was the bright orange.  Maybe it was the sheer number of pumpkins–I mean, usually when the boss says decorate most people opt for one or two pumpkins and maybe some streamers.  This seems like someone when above and beyond.  Maybe it was because the pumpkins seemed to survive the occasion intact. I would have expected rowdy teens and pre-teens would have smashed them in an immature attempt to be cool–kids these days consider clashing iphone cases as a form of rebellion.

It was quite the site to see and that is why it is Today’s Perfect Moment.

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About Anthony

I am: equal parts rebel, romantic and shockingly average Joe. a writer trapped inside of an ESL teacher's body. an introverted attention seeker. a teacher who hopes one day to be called "Captain, my Captain." an intellectual who can do some very dumb things. a person whose Japan experience, despite being so long ago, still exerts a strong influence upon him. a lover of books, music, beer, hockey and Pizza.
This entry was posted in Aspirations, Reflections, Perfection, celebration, commuting, Halloween, Viva, YRT and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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