The Parable of the Suicide and the Pram

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what is the root of our fascination with Halloween?”

Josh spoke thus:

A suicide was looking at a perambulator.

“What a queer word,” the suicide thought, “‘Perambulator’ is a strange word.  I like ‘pram.’  ‘Pram’ is such a cheerful word.  ‘Pram’ says sunny days in Hyde Park, among the other prams, beside the Serpentine, behind the tall apartments.  ‘Pram’ says a slightly runny nose on a cold winter’s evening, but wrapped warm as home in a woolen blanket, so that runny noses for a lifetime will instigate a comforting nostalgia.”

The suicide was feeling wordy.

“‘Perambulator,’” the suicide thought, “Is a word rife with stern governesses, crisp, metallic clothing, smoky curtains and damp washcloths.  ‘Perambulator’ is latin conjugations and sums and raps on the knuckles. ‘Perambulator’ is military and stern.  How queer that such a friendly object could have such an unfriendly name.”

The suicide’s attention shifted to a tree.  The tree was newly barren, its fallen leaves forming an irregular carpet beneath the suicide.

“Not so pretty now, eh?” the suicide said to the tree, “A little naked in this wind, eh?  Spring’s a long time ago, eh?  And a long time coming.  Spring is always a long time coming, and a short time leaving.  I was always impatient for spring.”

The tree did not appear impatient.

“You weren’t so patient when you were young, eh?” the suicide said to the tree, “You were all shoots and spearing and elbowing out.  Well your elbows are out now, eh?”

The suicide did not know what that meant, but the tree’s elbows did appear to be out, stretched as supplication, welcome or threat, or all three.  The suicide attempted to mimic the tree’s elbows with the suicide’s own.  The suicide could not move.

“No, of course not,” the suicide said to the tree, the leaves and the perambulator, “Moving’s not what I do now.  Which is a pity, because tree, leaves and perambulator are all urging me to look at something behind me.”

The suicide was glad the suicide was unable to look behind.  Behind always frightened the suicide.  Lately forward was frightening as well.  No, the suicide decided, forward was no longer frightening.  Forward had a pram.

“It’s a queer last thing to see, a pram,” the suicide said to the pram.