Seventy years old, Mrs. Josephine Rice decided to live.  Widowed two decades ago, vitality had inexorably ebbed away.  No longer. Hallowe’en night found, camouflaged amongst youthful costumed hordes, a magnificently garbed matron, archetypal mother of all witches loosed upon Earth. Well, at least, the neighborhood. Baba Yaga, Nightshade, Jadis and Elphaba resurrected.  Perfected.
Their doorbells rung, generous revelers answer expecting tiny imps, mischievous mites. Instead, wrinkled hands proffer gaping pillowcase. “Trick or treat!” Voice rasping, yet exuberant, anachronistically conveying childhood’s highest ideals. Momentarily taken aback, most homeowners hesitate mere seconds before bestowing candy, joyously, thinking, “May I be so alive.”