I'm illustrating my sentiments with a photo of a vase left by my mother -- who died five years ago yesterday, on Easter Sunday -- filled with a few stems of a flower my father loved, the deliciously fragrant, simple wallflower. We must have combined his birthday (mid-April) celebrations with our Easter egg hunt at least once over the years, and I'm finding the day saturated with memories (the whole week has been, actually, family memories built 'round liturgical observations, my dad's hot cross buns on Good Friday, the spiffed-up outfits for all of us -- that liquid white shoe polish, Kiwi brand, roll-on, assiduously applied to T-strapped Mary Janes and little first-walking booties alike -- on Easter Sunday, roast lamb on Holy Thursday, unusually, one year, because my mother thought we should more tangibly understand the Passover meal that the Last Supper may/must have been, my father's beautiful tenor in Church . . . I haven't practised, observed, for quite a few years now, but my memories, even my very cells, seem to, still. . .
We usually head to my sister's today for the brunch she hosts, where we get to watch the next generation hunt for "eggs" in K's garden. But we're heading in a different direction towards another family event -- I'll tell you more later in the week.
For now, may you all find renewal and growth in the spirit of this day. . . and perhaps a chocolate egg or two. . .