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The workshop in the ministry gardens smells of earth and spices- warm pumpkin flesh and herbs mixed with the scent of burning candle wax from the lit candles nearby. Primo insists on doing things the old way- sleeves rolled past his elbows while he very carefully and thoughtfully draws intricate patterns on the orange skin of a pumpkin with charcoal.
“Patience, Cara Mia.” He murmurs softly and focused, his eyes twinkling behind the glasses perched on his nose. “If you rush, you wound the pumpkin’s soul.”
You hold back laughs as your spoon accidentally slips and flicks a big glob of pumpkin pulp on his bare forearm. Gasping in mock offense, he then retaliates and playfully flings pumpkin seeds in your direction. The room is filling with quiet sweet laughter that feels older than the season itself.
When the pumpkins are finally carved- yours with a happy grin and his a swirl of intricate sigils and symbols- Primo wipes his hands and then brings a finger to his lips as if to ask for silence. Obeying, you watch as he closes his eyes and softly chants something in latin. The syllables are reverent, rhythmic and sowed with intention. The palm of his hand passes over each pumpkin individually, and one by one they bloom with a soft inner light. Lighting as if by their own joyful happiness.
No candles. Just warmth and coziness- sacred and alive.
“See? Even in darkness, bambina…there is always light waiting to be found.”
Outside, the cold autumn wind stirs up leaves but here- inside this sanctuary with Primo, the glow and warmth feels endless- timeless.