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Another year, another Easter. Another trip to my parents' house, over the mountains and through a cloudy gray day, which is common in these parts this time of year. We eat ham and won tons, traditional holiday foods in our family, drink sodas, snack on guacamole, crab salad, watermelon, and Reese's peanut butter eggs. After dinner, we put on our coats and go outside for our traditional holiday egg hunt, where we hide eggs for the kids all through the back yard, and which they later hide for us, giggling when we walk right past, not seeing.
This year, the "dolts," as my nephew calls "adults," found all the eggs except one, hidden by my youngest nephew, who is five. He couldn't remember where he put it either, and nobody, not even the dog, could sniff it out. It probably rolled through the grass into the back of my father's flower garden, or under the fence, beyond where we could see or reach.
My parents still live in the house where I grew up, enjoying their own spot in the country for nearly 30 years now. On Easter the past moves close to us, a soft presence that sits on our shoulders and whispers in our ears, making everything we thought we'd left behind alive once more. Suddenly, I'm no longer a "dolt," but a little girl with long braids hunting for the chocolate eggs my parents hid earlier that morning.
One year, someone runs to the convenience store for more chocolates, after we discover that our golden retriever, Williger, has been on a hunt of his own, so all that is left for us are shiny foil wrappers, tossed around the yard like Easter confetti. My grandparents sit at the picnic table, comforting me through my loss. On this day, at this time, they are there again, and if I close my eyes, I can give them that last hug I always wish I'd taken the time for.
I'd like to live in the light of Easter forever. It gives me hope that nothing we love is...