Along with many neighbors on West Club Boulevard, I feel a bit of a chill as Halloween approaches.

No, it’s not because of the weather. For the past decade, my street has been a beacon for small (and not so small) kids eager to trick-or-treat. What started as a mild melee of 500 or so ghosts, princesses and Screams has mighty morphed into an onslaught of 1,500-plus kiddos and their families, from adorable infants to teens sauntering with the wrinkled pillowcases swiped from a bed that afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong. I love this. I’m one of the nuts who decorates with fake spiders and fake web, fake skeletons and fake blood splattered on my porch steps. On the speakers is spooky music (very real). In the closet are reinforcements of Dum Dum suckers and Tootsie Rolls, for when the fancier Butterfingers and Hershey bars give out. Neighbors, colleagues and friends are heartily invited to help from the porch so long as they bring candy. Starting with the toddlers around five, I’m usually on the porch until well after most other houses have gone dark.

Why do I love Halloween above all other days? The holiday is an invitation for all to play. We get to be our favorite heroes or our most terrible nightmares. We get to let our imaginations run wild. We look death in the face and laugh.

Death, after all, always gets the last one.

My daughter became famous one Halloween as The Pope, complete with mitre and shepherd’s staff. Another kid came as a rather awesome Hurricane Fran. My son’s version of Elvis was delightful, allowing him to escape T-shirts and shorts for one night into rhinestones and pant-suited hilarity. Many of my neighbors remember the year that students from the School of Science and Math matey’d and aarghed their way down the street as pirates, complete with a treasure trunk filled with candy.

Halloween is also a wonderful forum for satire and, occasionally, the most pointed political commentary this side of The Daily Show. One warmish October, we were surrounded by Joe the Plumbers. Another, I was a rather dramatic and slightly soused Cindy McCain (red power suit courtesy of Goodwill). This year, I’m fairly confident we will have our share of Trumps, Bernies and Hillaries, with perhaps a smattering of Carsons and Christies (bridge included).

Some complain about the traffic or the kids that, un-costumed, still demand their Neccos. I don’t care. I’d rather have them collecting sweets than staring goggle-eyed at video games. In the dark and the crowd, a teen already facing too many adult challenges can slip back into childhood for just a couple of hours.

Besides, the celebration is not just for kids. Halloween is a flaming pumpkin light against the darkness, a G-rated (at least while the kiddies are out) flip off of death. We know (even if we don’t like to think about it) that our time on earth is short. Soon, we’ll all be bones and, eventually, a bit of dirt. So why not take death out of its hidey hole and have a little fun, adults included?

Last year, the guests I always invite to help give out candy arrived a little later than expected. To my horror, Halloween started a little earlier. For a good hour or so, I was besieged, robbed of even the time to don my costume (Darryl from “The Walking Dead,” complete with Nerf crossbow and a string of beanie baby gutted squirrels). An older woman approached, then asked if she could join me on the porch. She’d prepared for Halloween in her home last year, but not a single trick-or-treater had rung the door bell. Could she help pass out candy, she wanted to know?

I was delighted. Through her eyes, I saw the line already forming down the walk as newly precious and fleeting. How many more autumns will I get with sparkling princesses? I can’t wait for each and every Spiderman, zombie cheerleader and bunch of grapes. Once a sleeping bumble bee, little bear or lady bug is offered up to admire, I may just expire out of pure delight. Always, there’s anticipation. Which will be the costume this year that makes me marvel, as I did when a Statue of Liberty, complete with crown and torch of hope, settled on the step for some juice and a little rest.

Bring on the monsters. And the spare bags of candy, if you want to pitch in.

Originally published in the Durham News