GourdonBones

Every October the old field at the edge of Solana goes quiet. The crows stop talking. The scarecrows turn their heads. Somewhere in the tall dry grass a match gets struck.

Nobody remembers who carved him. Some say he was a farmer who planted one seed too many. Others say he was a chart that went to zero and refused to stay buried. His own skull got rugged long ago so he took the biggest pumpkin in the patch and never took it off.

He walks the rows with a match in one hand and a candle in the other. The match lights the way forward. The candle is for every holder who keeps the flame alive through the long red nights.

When the match burns down he strikes another. He has never run out. He never will. And every year the patch grows bigger.

If you hear laughing in the grass you are already holding.