Trunk

I live in the margins
while my kid is accounted for
and I have fifty three minutes
to accomplish the near impossible:
find ten nearly identical pumpkins
wart-free and unscarred
with sturdy stalks
and smooth, carvable flesh.

Hunting mode engaged:
I park at the first store, deem their stash unworthy.
Restart my car, drive to the next grocery.
This one has two sad cardboard boxes,
dented with the ghosts of children's shoes and adults' knees.
At the bottom of each:
a scattering of slumpy, slushy pepos, pre-composted.
My gag reflex activates; I turn for the safety of my cabin.

I flick my wrist, and my Apple Watch
shines blue into the twilight: Twenty-four past.
I am really cutting it close, here.
But if I don't bag a haul,
then no one will be cutting tomorrow.

Off to the farthest grocery,
past the pick-up spot,
beyond home,
through the far woods.

I arrive, my boldness rewarded:
five rows of pumpkins encircle the entrance of this market
and I encounter "showy, glowy pumpkins,"
all posed and poised
propped at their best angle for premium viewing.

And now the search is on once again:
I squat, I swivel, I turn, I thump.
I hold, I listen, I prod, I jiggle.
This one has a slit, that will fester.
That one has two punctures, also out.
The one there one is grand but has a flat, dusty back.
The one hiding in the corner has promise –
but also a coating of mold.

This one has pumpkin pox
That one is warm to the touch–
warning of toxic exothermic reactions inside –
the hint of microbial chaos, tells me:
Back away, back away.

This one is perfect, but bigger than the rest.
That could cause a mutiny.

Slowly, with caution for my future life,
I select five pairs of approved gourds.
Befriending a store keep
I negotiate multiple purchases,
one cart in, check out, roll to the car,
return for the next round.

By the time I load the last squash
into my SUV
I realize, too late, how unhinged this looks:
Pumpk's in the Trunk.

I see a car near me
snap a not-so-subtle pic of me, my trunk.
I envision the text thread in their head:
"White lady shit - look at this chick out here
"She's taking the whole display home."

I might be pumpkin wrangling, but I'm no Basic B.
This is for a non-for-profit, I remind myself.
Children will benefit from this.

Speaking of kids – Oh My.
I have three minutes to make it across town.
I book it, speech-to-texting at the first light:

"I'm on my way I promise!

"Follow me on FindMy.

"I'll be a bit late...."

But I can't hit the metal
because my car is weighed down like a boat taking on water
and every time I go over twenty
my pumpkin passengers start to jostle.

After finding every red light
I am here, at last,
ten pumpkins, one peeved teen.
"What's that sound!" She scowls.
Pokes her head in the back then cries:
"MOM!"
Eye roll, engaged:
"How EMBARRASSING!"

But come tomorrow, she will be proud,
possessive, particular, as she waves her hand
over the patch that appeared on the porch
and her friends and community members
clamber for a spherical squash to call their own.

The magic they will collectively experience
comes from the manic machinations of a mom
living in the margins while her kid takes center stage.

I am okay, for now,
with being the smoke machine, the magic,
the special effects that change the vibe,
that brings smiles to teenagers.

Childhood is so short:
I don't care who sees me hauling
potbellied gourds with my pants slipping down
in the dusk of a suburban grocery lot.
Every minute of hers that I can elongate?
I will find that moment like a prize gourd.