When the Veil Is Thin
Halloween has always held a special kind of magic for me. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved the way the air smells like change — crisp leaves, fall treats, and a hint of mischief. Maybe it’s because my birthday is the very next day, November 1st, so the world always seemed to throw me a party the night before. Costumes, candy, and chaos? Yes, please.
It’s always felt like my personal new year — a time when imagination runs wild and the line between reality and possibility blurs. The veil between what is and what was (and what could be) always seemed thinner this time of year, like the world itself takes a deep breath and lets the living and the lost share the same space for a moment.
Jay never quite shared my enthusiasm for Halloween. I could never get that man into costume for anything — not a sci-fi convention, not a Renaissance fair, not even a basic vampire cape. The man who had served in a war zone would rather face incoming fire than glitter or face paint. Still, he encouraged me to celebrate. He’d smile that quiet, amused smile, tell me to go have fun, and let me be as weird and festive as I wanted. That was his version of love — steady, supportive, and content to let me have my moment.
But now Halloween carries another kind of meaning.
Because in the early morning hours of October 31st, 2018 — the day before my birthday — Jay slipped away. My knight in dented armor laid down his sword just as the sun began to rise. And in that fragile space between night and morning, my life divided into before and after.
Ever since, this time of year has felt both sacred and heavy. The laughter and lights of Halloween still come, but behind them is a silence that hums like a heartbeat. I feel him in the stillness — not as a ghost, but as something quieter, deeper. Some would call it haunting. I call it presence. The kind that never fully leaves, even when the person does.
Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t disappear; it settles in. It becomes part of the landscape — something you learn to walk with instead of away from. Every year, as the veil thins, I find myself lighting a candle not out of mourning but gratitude. Gratitude for having loved and been loved by someone brave enough to face both life and death with courage, humor, and heart. Gratitude for the lessons he left behind, and the purpose that still drives me to fight for others in his memory.
Jay may never have worn a costume, but he wore honor, loyalty, and stubborn love better than anyone I’ve ever known. And though I can’t see him across the table or hear his voice anymore, I feel him with me — especially now, when the air turns cold and the world remembers its ghosts.
So tonight, when the pumpkins glow and the shadows stretch a little longer, I’ll celebrate. For him. For me. For the thin space between love and loss that never really closes.
Because maybe, when the veil is thin, it’s not just the dead who visit the living — maybe it’s the living who finally stop long enough to feel them near.
