This is one more way I know that I’m old:
every year getting a bigger kick out of
kids’ costumes on Halloween.

Younger me would spend the evening
somewhat annoyed when the old-fashioned
doorbell (truly a bell) shrilled,

forcing me to rise from the sofa and
some engaging TV program to deliver
candy to strangers. But this, too,

is one more way that the man I married
changed me: He, a pushover for cuteness,
would answer the bell and beckon me

to the door, insisting, “You gotta see this,
Toots.” And there’d stand a trio of tiny witches
or a mini Luke Skywalker or a toddler

in a doggie onesie. And he was right—
they charmed me, so much so that now
I greet every Halloween doorbell

with a big grin, even the too-cool teens
half-slouching on the porch, but who
light up when I offer chocolate.

The day before Halloween 42 years ago,
he had his chest opened and his aortic valve
replaced, leaving him with a wicked,

ghoulish scar and a lifesaving device that
tick-tick-ticked as it opened and closed,
opened and closed, as his damaged one

had not, buying him 17 more Halloweens.
Every year since, as I close the door on
some exceptional cuteness, I will say, more

than once, “Didja see that one, Clifford?”
not expecting an answer. Though neither
will I be surprised, later in the night

to awaken to a familiar tick-tick-tick
and take that as a whispered,
“You betcha, Toots.”