Pumpkin Head
I know I am but what are you?
Pumpkin Head. The moniker stuck once it landed in the book’s line reserved for new baby’s nickname.
It fit. No one could deny that baby’s perfectly round melon.
A head always slightly out of proportion to her body. Hats accentuated the problem. Sweaters sometimes stuck. There were no beanies sized specially for sorority hazing in college; Pumpkin Heads were forced to make due.
As an adult, the too-tight helmet on loan from a friend while skiing affirmed what she’d known her whole life. She was, indeed, Pumpkin Head.
People say children become the names they’re given.
She remembered Odin, named for the Nordic god of wisdom and war. Odi was the stoic strongman his name had destined him to become, curious about the world and fiercely loyal with a quick temper and history of playground scuffles.
Then there was Joy. And that she was. People left Joy’s company with a spring in their step, lifted by a force they knew they’d felt but could never identify. That was the magic of Joy.
And Pumpkin Head? She became a bit of a goof. A laugh so loud colleagues told her they always knew when she was somewhere within the three floors of the solid brick building they occupied. Even the most noise canceling of noise canceling headphones were no match for the guffaws of a Pumpkin Head in the face of a sleeping husband. A Pumpkin Head chortle could temporarily stun babies the world over.
The bright orange and yellow dress her mother had chosen for her first-ever baby portrait became her destiny and she reveled in it.
It’s not a terrible thing to be a Pumpkin Head. Seldom a wallflower, sometimes too loud, but almost always down for whatever you bring her way. Hats rarely ever fit. But there were worse fates in life.
