If you ask kids what their favorite holiday is, most of them will probably say, “Christmas!” because they get presents. Some might say, “Halloween!” because they get candy. Growing up, October 31st was always my favorite day of the year, but it had nothing to do with receiving cavity-inducing treats. I loved Halloween because for one special night, I could be absolutely anything I wanted.

Trick-or-treating was fun, of course, and no kid’s going to refuse candy, but wearing that costume, putting myself in the role of someone not me–that’s what held all the magic.

On Halloween, I could be a flapper from the 1920s, the Bride of Frankenstein, or a vampire bat (my wings were so cool–they had glow-in-the-dark lines on them).

Halloween made me feel confident, playful, and powerful–all things I don’t particularly feel the other 364 days a year. It gave me the chance to walk in another man/woman/creature’s shoes, then take them off at the end of the night when they started to hurt.

I was a dragon, roaring around with green duct tape on my tail to protect it from dragging on the sidewalk. I was a bat, winging through the night, my cute clip-on bat earrings dangling from my woefully un-pierced ears. I was a Pooh Bear who sneezed messily, causing my dad to blow my nose on a dead leaf (not anyone’s finest moment, but you have to admire the ingenuity). I was the serial killer Red John from my favorite TV show, The Mentalist, sporting a ring of duct tape around my wrist and a small pocket knife I was too afraid to walk inside Meijer’s with because I might get in trouble. I was an artist, carving my masterpiece into the cold, slimy flesh of a pumpkin.

I was all those things and more, and I cherish every memory–except maybe the sneeze.

Today, I was a friendly werewolf, making patrons smile as they entered the library and laughed at my ears, paws, and tail.

Halloween hasn’t lost its magic yet, and I hope it never does.