The Last Night of October

All through summer and early autumn, light comes from the sky in wide, generous sheets. By the last evening of October, the afternoon folds up before suppertime, and the persimmon tree by the gate has dropped almost everything it was holding—leaving only a couple of stubborn orange fruit on the bare crooked twigs and drifts of golden ginkgo fans and red maple leaves tucked into the corners of the stone steps.

Every other lamp in a house is lit for the people inside it. A desk lamp is for a book; a kitchen light is for the cutting board; a hallway lantern is for finding the stairs.

But on the last night of October, you hollow out a ribbed dark-green squash with a spoon, pierce a crescent moon and a few ginkgo leaves through the rind, set a stub of beeswax candle inside, and carry it out across the sill onto the cold flagstones.

There is something quietly defiant about lending a handful of house-warmth to the porch step just as the frost and November dark arrive. Through the carved ribs of the gourd, the candle throws miniature golden moons onto the wet slate; beside it, the papery orange hōzuki pods in their stoneware jar glow like small hanging embers, and the cat sits right on the wooden track of the sliding door—refusing to commit to either the warm hallway or the cold garden—watching a single yellow ginkgo leaf tumble through the light.