The Physics of Pumpkins
By Florence Newman
“The top’s too heavy, too much space below,” my neighbor says. “’Spect she’ll start sagging soon.” He’d lugged the massive thing out front for me. I realize with horror that he’s right. I’d carved my share of pumpkins through the years, protected them from predatory squirrels, from Mischief Night marauders: hubris had at last undone me. A slightly wider grin, an extra tooth or two—I should have known the plan was flawed, the architecture tenuous. Before too long the carriage will collapse, sides slump, rind pit and wrinkle, pulp dissolve and putrify. The oblique eyes, the arching brows, isosceles nose are doomed to droop and molder. Look on those overweening teeth, ye mighty, and descry their graying edges fold and sear, like the striate skin of a stitched cadaver. Now soon a press of princesses, pop stars, pirates, pixies, vampires, ninjas, sprites, enchanters, supermen, and bumblebees will throng the street, importunate to take their turn, while my poor jack-o-lantern, claimed by gravity, sits rotting at the door before I’ve even got the candle lit.