He wasn’t there, where I’d left him.
He wasn’t waiting in the spot where he’d waited for the better part of a year,
and I knew it before I got there,
and I smiled.
Be well, my love….
Month: April 2009
Luke
My son, Trey, stood behind the yawning, vintage-model car door as Luke climbed out onto the driveway, wearing a look of intent focus. He hadn’t been doing this long, and he wanted to do it right. I couldn’t help but wonder if the plaid button-down he was wearing was the choice of Trey or the boy’s mother. Either way, he was cute, in an elfin sort of way. Little boys, especially cute little boys, always get to me.
Luke belonged to Starr who though eight years older than my son, and already burdened with a child from a failed marriage, had employed her appreciable feminine wiles to capture his heart. Trey would use the word “heart”. In my opinion, and in concert with her considerable reputation, the heart was not the body part she was most adept at handling. After much conversation, it was decided that despite my misgivings about their relationship, my son, his girlfriend, and her child would attend our family gathering. It was Christmas, after all.
I had shopped the week before for gifts, making a previously unanticipated stop in the toy department, where I chose the appropriate testosterone-building toys for a boy Luke’s age. I can admit now to feeling like something of a martyr; a generous martyr, but a martyr all the same.
Luke entered the house through a fence of dog legs. I remember squinting eyes above his smile, as he swatted animals easily outweighing him. He burbled unintelligibly in a high pitched voice, and I wasn’t sure who he was addressing until I heard the word “Mama”. As the evening wore on, I would hear that word from his lips more than any other.
Luke was affable. He worked at it. He was affable and hesitant, all at once, making it clear that he had been coached. I appreciated both efforts, while hoping it hadn’t cost him.
My dogs fascinated Luke to a point just shy of terror. As he reached one small hand to touch their fur he searched the room for his mother, and finding her, burbled loudly, as if to say, “Look, I’m doing it! I’m petting the dog! Aren’t I good? Aren’t you proud? Please watch me!”. To her credit, she always answered positively, supportively,employing her limited resources as effectively as she knew how.
Dinner was served, and I sat Luke amidst the other children. His loud, high-pitched voice and easy, somewhat manic laughter drew my smiling attention frequently; while also drawing the attention of my son who, despite the short duration of their relationship, had apparently assumed the role of disciplinarian. As Trey’s head swung in the direction of the boy, I saw hooded, down-turned eyes before the smile that decorated his words.
“I’ll be good!” Luke’s voice was shrill and somewhat desperate, conjuring dark images of angry faces, loud words, and violence.
Something must have shown in my face, and Trey sought me out later to explain. Luke had “problems”. They had made an appointment to see a doctor. The look on my son’s face said, “I didn’t do this. But, I’m trying to fix it.”.
As everyone in attendance could have guessed, the relationship ended badly. Trey took refuge with my daughter and her family, starting a new career while trying, desperately, to envision a new life. That was over a year ago.
This morning I scowled at the sound of my ringtone until, glancing at the display, I saw that it was Trey calling. He is a victim of our country’s current economic downturn, and thus in need of an updated resume which I had promised to deliver several days ago.
“Hey, Mom.” He starts every conversation in this way, no matter the circumstance.
We discussed the resume. I asked the appropriate questions. He gave the only answers he could.
“I’m thinking about moving back to Jefferson. I just feel like a burden to everyone here.” As my son spoke, I envisioned him holding his cellphone tightly against his right ear, his head hanging between his knees.
With his words, an image of Starr filled my head, with Luke lurking in the background.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”, I said, with remarkable control, inviting Trey to state his case, which he did, hesitantly, haltingly.
“You have to think about the boy, Trey. You have to think about Luke. He didn’t ask to be born to a crazy mother, and he didn’t ask for you. You can’t just go in and out of a boy’s life like that! It’s not fair!”
I had finally said the words I should have said years ago.
“Starr’s cleaned up!”, Trey began.
“And, how many times has that happened? Huh? How many times has Starr changed? How long is it going to last this time? And besides, Starr doesn’t matter here. It’s the boy! The boy is all that matters!”
I had spilled it. A little more wouldn’t matter.
“Mom, it’s time you knew…”, Trey began.
I know now that I gripped the arms of the leather chair I sat in as he spoke, though at the time, I had no realization.
“Starr was arrested in Boston. They took Luke, and gave him to his father. The next thing she heard was that Luke was in the hospital. His father beat him pretty bad…”
I remember his smile and the way he tried, so hard, to please. I remember a small, plaid, button-down shirt, and swatting hands, and a shrill voice that said, “Love me. Please love me. Please…just love me…
I’ll be good…”
Pieces of Me
I live in a 70’s era brick ranch which was built in a time when closets and bathrooms were allowed the same amount of square footage, and neither is generous. The only extra closet in the house is filled, year-round, with suit jackets and winter coats which won’t bear folding into plastic storage bins. So twice a year, once in spring and again in the fall, I make the climb up complaining, collapsible stairs, into my attic to retrieve our stored clothes.
“Changing out the closets”, as I’ve come to refer to this laborious task, is not a chore I enjoy, which serves to explain why I’ve worn the same two pairs of sandals for the better part of the last two weeks. But, as April wanes into May, spring has taken hold with plans to hang around for at least a couple of weeks before summer begins, in earnest. I’ve spent two full days in my shirt sleeves, with no need for a jacket or shawl of any kind. The time has come. It’s a solitary task, affording lots of time to think, and lots of open space for memories to fill.
This year I am especially surprised by the number of shirts I possess that carry the University of Florida logo. I have one fleece vest, three sweatshirts, three long sleeved tees, two baseball jerseys, and countless t-shirts. Over the years, Roger has expressed his relief in the knowledge that when his imagination fails him, he can always go to the sporting goods store to buy my gift. Perhaps I should help him with more hints.
I wavered this year over whether or not to keep the brown suede skirt. It’s cut on the bias, western style, and the one time I wore it I felt a little like Annie Oakley. The only acceptable shoe to wear with this skirt is, of course, a western boot. Fortunately, I own three pairs. Unfortunately, the skirt doesn’t quite meet the boots and I find that swath of skin, hosed or not, unsightly. But, it’s a great skirt. I’m keeping it.
I bought a pair of boots last year on Ebay. They were fawn colored, high-heeled, and designed by Tommy Hilfiger. When they arrived, I found the heel to be just a little higher than I’d imagined, but they were beautiful. I wore them this winter to a lunch date with my father. As the host beaconed me follow him to the corner where I saw my father sitting, I surveyed the twenty feet of uneven stone flooring and prayed I wouldn’t land in a heap at someone’s feet. Each step felt like I was walking on tip-toe on a very slick surface. At the time, I made a mental note to wear them more often to accustom my feet while scuffing the slick off the bottoms. I didn’t. But, I might next year.
A red and white sailor’s top went directly from bin to the charity pile. My sailor girl days are long over…
I removed a gauzy black jacket from the hanger while admiring it, yet again. It is one of my favorite pieces of clothing. Sheer black nylon is accented by the pinks and greens of hand painted flowers on splotches of black velvet. Beads of differing sizes hang from the hem, continuing up both sides and around the neck. I realized today that, at first glance, one might think it a piano shawl. Loath to knowingly perch upon glass beads, I have worn the jacket very little. Perhaps with some alterations, I might find a place to drape it.
When I ordered the black and gold, ruffled blouse, I had no idea it was constructed of netting. It has ridden the rail in my closet for almost a year. I can’t imagine wearing it anywhere other than a dark bar. I can’t imagine myself in a dark bar.
I kept the blue turtleneck, though I haven’t worn it in several years. I don’t like the feeling of anything against my neck. But blue is one of Shane’s team colors, and some of those football games are played in frigid weather. I might wear it underneath something else…
It saddened me to find my blue and pink, argyle sweater. I bought it new in the fall, and wore it just once before it got lost amidst the racks. It really is cute. I wish I’d worn it more. There’s always next year…
And, that’s when the thought popped into my head, “What if this is the last time you pack these clothes? What if the next time this bin is opened by someone else who won’t appreciate the style in your gray patent lace-up pumps, or the cuteness of your sweaters? What if the next person who opens this bin just sees you, the memory of you?”
I allowed myself just a moment of sadness, more for the person left to collect my effects than for me, and then just one more, one more moment to lament my loss; the loss of invincibility. Life, now, is finite. The end, whether it be ten, twenty, or even fifty years away is as real as the breath I’m breathing right now. For the rest of the day I’ll be looking for a place to store that.
Drawing Conclusions
There may be some people who, on the first day of a serious funk, identify it, and set about rectifying it. Would that I were one of those people.
My first instinct is to quash it. A firm believer in the power of positive thinking, I ignore my ennui and go about my days as though nothing were amiss. And, sometimes this actually works. It doesn’t solve anything, of course, but it can help me get to a better place.
The problem with quashing is that when it doesn’t bring about the desired result my angst is doubled. My original problem is now shrouded in a feeling of inadequacy at my failure to meet it, head on. It becomes a true “elephant in the middle of the room”. Quick! Throw a blanket over it!
It is truly amazing how creative I can be without any conscious effort. I have employed a great number of things to prevent my having to actually resolve to make a change, end a habit, or perform a task I dread.
Social networking is my latest drug of choice. Had you told me three years ago that I might spend hours, daily, in front of my computer monitor, accomplishing nothing more important than sending a bouquet of virtual flowers or participating in a virtual food fight, I would have thought you daft and told you so. I am blessed with a group of caring, intelligent, and highly entertaining virtual friends whose constant company allows me to put most anything on the back burner, and I giggle as it boils over.
A nice glass of wine adds a fresh patina to even the most unpleasant day. Several hours and another glass later, all that remains is an easily avoided memory.
My hobbies, too, provide a place in which I can immerse myself. Of late, I have finished two pieces of needlework, completed three jigsaw puzzles, taken numerous photographs, planted several gardens, and begun a large sketch of a nature scene. When I haven’t been posting my answers to “25 Things About Me”, I’ve been busy.
What I haven’t been doing very much of lately is writing. I love to write, but lately, the thought of it makes me weary. Upon recognizing that fact, I accepted it, and as happens so often when I “Let go…”, the reason revealed itself.
Writing, you see, requires introspection. Even when writing fiction, the writer culls from life experience, emotion, and, thus, evaluation. It’s this last part I’ve been avoiding….
A good friend, upon expressing his intense dislike of a photograph of me, asked what it meant to me. I stumbled over several likely answers before he, tenacious as always, asked me to start again.
“And, make it real this time.”
“I was looking out a window…”
“Uh-huh…”
“…because I’m looking for something. I don’t know what it is. I only know it’s not here.”
“Fine. I get that.”
There was no further discussion of the offending photograph, and the answer satisfied me as well, until recently.
As happens quite often when I refuse to deal with my demons, a virus snaked around my wearied defenses, laying me low. For the better part of two days, all I wanted was sleep. When I awoke this morning, the fever seemed to have broken, leaving behind a revelation.
Age, the time I have spent in what seems to have been a circuitous route to nowhere, weighs heavy upon my head. I am the cliché, looking out a window, asking “Is this truly all there is?”
The empirical knowledge that my experience only speaks to my normalcy gives me no more relief than knowing that missing teeth were a normal part of grade school, or that break-outs were expected in puberty. I never aspired to be normal. Normal is boring. I would much rather be me.
And, there’s the rub; because right now, at a time when I really need me, I’m not very happy with me. I’ve ignored me. I’ve abused me. I’ve neglected me and many other people in my life, in pursuit of avoidance.
In truth, what I have here, inside the window, is very nearly picture perfect. I think its time I drew myself back in.
Hair There, And Everywhere
My father’s parents divorced, long before I knew any of them. Granddaddy married, the second time, a large, raw-boned, country woman with a shock of red hair which would later feature a swath of purest white down one side. She left it that way, and I loved it. She was like that. She was what she was, and this made her easy to love.
Granddaddy had long since closed the small grocery store he owned and operated for many years. Charlotte supported them by owning and operating a beauty shop. And, it was a beauty shop. It was not a salon, or a spa; it was a beauty shop. Blue-haired ladies sat in a row, under hooded dryers that ran along one garishly painted wall. Daily gossip drowned out country music. playing over a transistor radio sitting on the front desk, and all the “operators” wore smocks. Charlotte added to her earnings by contracting with a local funeral home to dress the tresses of those who would no longer need her services.
My sisters may take exception to my opinion, but in truth, only one of us was born with good hair. Holly has hair, and then some. She was the only one of the four of us to be born with color, thickness, and curls. The rest of us were born blonde, fine, and stick-straight.
Despite, or perhaps, due to the fact that it was to her contribution to our genetics that we owed our lanky locks, my mother frequently drove my sister and I several miles, across town to my Grandmother’s house, for a perm.
The box was pink, with the word “Toni” spelled, in large letters across the top. And, after a while, it became a ritual to come home from my grandmother’s house, and take one look in the mirror before turning on the faucet in hopes of washing out some of the neutralizer. I was usually successful, and my mother never commented.
I have always had a love/hate relationship with my hair. Pictures of me, through the years, show the struggle I’ve endured in finding just the right length, color, and style. After grade school the trips across town stopped, and I grew my hair to conform to the current fashion; long, straight, and parted in the middle. We all looked exactly the same, and that year’s school portrait remains among my favorite from my childhood.
By the time I entered the eleventh grade I was working part-time, and used my earnings to create my style. For years, I had frequented my mother’s beauty shop, where Diane carved stylish “wings” into my hair. Sure she would not be able to keep up with my avant-gardes style; I drove across town to a salon in which the stylist was only too willing to shave my locks to within a half-inch of my scalp. Tears welled in my mother’s eyes as I breezed through the backdoor, but she never said a discouraging word.
I shudder to think of my hair while in nursing school. Suffice it to say, it was big, and garnered many complements. But, it was the eighties, after all…
I’ve been long. I’ve been short. For a time I fancied red; a deep, brownish-red, chestnut perhaps. I married with red hair. I chose a dove gray dress. It worked.
I admire curls. Of course I do! The grass is always greener… It was my yearning for curls that enabled my first visit to my current stylist.
He liked long hair. What man doesn’t? I grew it to please him. But, as it grew, it hung like spider webs around my face. Tired, bored, and looking for a change, I went in search of a salon. At 9:00 am, on a Saturday morning, the choices were few. Several cars in front of the door told me they were accepting customers, and I pulled in.
I felt immediate unease, as I repeated my assignment several times, to a petite, dark-skinned woman who hadn’t, as yet, conquered the English language. Choosing to put my anxieties aside, I took a seat among the unknowing. I wanted curls.
A middle-aged woman approached me apologetically. As I took her seat, I searched the mirror for a license and, finding it, relaxed against the vinyl. She papered, and rolled, papered, and rolled. I noticed her questioning a nearby stylist frequently, and decided that my style was so new, so fresh, that she required assistance to achieve the effect I had so masterfully described.
I left, with curls that would have made my Grandmother proud!
Several weeks later, as the curls dissolved into frizz, I jangled the bell of a different salon. They had closed. The last customer had left several minutes before. Deedee took one look at my hair, and pity overcame her aching legs and tired arms. In what seemed like minutes, she transformed my angry locks into something I could live with.
Since that time, I’ve gone shorter. Gwen Stefani inspired me to go beyond blonde, and Gina Glocksen took off about four inches. I wore the “Graduated Bob” until everyone one else graduated. Unhappy to see myself replicated everywhere I went, I changed again.
This year, I’m curly again, but, less curly; wavy, really. The style is blonde, and soft, and where I am now. It suits us both, me and my hair. I’ve given up control, and it feels like the right thing to do.
Deedee tells me that I can’t do color and perm in one visit. My hair is darker now. I search for tell-tale grays among my roots.
And, seeing one, revel in the real.
From First to Last
I’ve had occasion, lately, to consider my “firsts”; my first kiss, my first sleep-over, my first job…
Days after completing the survey, I find myself still considering. While applying make-up, my first pair of boots walk through my mind. They were black patent leather, and the sound of those heels on institutional tile transformed me from a twelve year-old, angst-ridden seventh-grader into a confident, edgy, prepubescent force. While driving to work, I hear the sound of horses’ hooves on pavement as I relive my first carriage ride. It was mid-afternoon. We were in Chattanooga, on streets packed with tourists. But, the fact of him beside me dimmed the sun, stilled the crowd, and isolated our love to a single point in the middle of a busy thoroughfare wherein we were the only two souls that mattered.
I wish I’d appreciated my “firsts” more. I wish someone had reminded me, before I turned back to make sure no one was watching through a front window, that I would be allowed just one first time to surrender to Jimmy’s embrace. I wish someone had been there to whisper in my ear, “This will be your only first date.” It would have been helpful if, before placing her into my arms for the first time, the nurse had looked at me knowingly as she said, “This is your first, and only, daughter.”
I’ve reached the age when thinking of “firsts” leads, naturally, to consideration of a growing number of “lasts”. I’ve birthed all the children I will ever bear. I will never again feel the sweet pull of infant lips upon my breast, or feel the rush of emotion in realizing the miracle inherent in our relationship.
Since the age of twenty-one, sex has been a repetitive act. And, while each encounter offers a new and wonderful experience, nothing is like the first time; the virgin time. As synthetic fibers scratched against my bare back, I wish I’d had the wisdom to consider; is this the right place, the right time, the right man? Are you ready to be a mother?
What if, before you first stepped onto your college campus, a guide stopped you, taking you by the arms? “Stop!”, he might have said. “Stop, and look around. This is the only first time you will walk upon the ground that will change your life. Your next step will forge your destiny. The decisions you make now will determine your life course, because tomorrow will be your second time.”
I enjoyed driving my first car, but might I have enjoyed it more if I knew that I’d never see another one like it? Would I have relished the feeling of pumping the clutch, and finding the gears, if I knew I’d never feel that again?
I will never again reap the harvest from my first garden. I can never again get my first perfect score in English, or Math, or Spanish, or bowling. I have already baked my first birthday cake.
I know there are more “firsts” ahead of me; my first stress test, my first colonoscopy, my first AARP card. And, I hope for more; my first published book, my first trip overseas, my first healthy dill plant. I can’t grow dill. I’ve tried, and tried.
One day, I know I’m going to find just the right spot…
Closer
In a house inhabited by an eleven year-old boy, peace and quiet is a true commodity. When I get it I resent any interruption, but particularly the jarring ring of an unanticipated telephone call, just as words begin to flow from my fingertips.
“Hey! Didn’t know if you’d heard…Brenda’s house got broken into today.”
An image of my already anxiety-ridden, widowed neighbor filled my mind.
“They broke out two back windows before her alarm went off, but they didn’t get anything.”
I thanked my neighbor for calling, before dropping my head to my hands in an effort to recapture my thoughts.
It wasn’t until mid-day the next day that I felt it. Some time after lunch; after I’d eaten, and conversed, and excused myself to read with hopes for a nap; I felt the violation. My peaceful, uneventful, quiet cul-de-sac had been violated. An unknown person with nefarious goals had roamed my neighborhood. He’d looked at my house. He’d chosen hers over mine. But, he’d looked at my house, with intent.
I reasoned that the sight of three dogs, of appreciable size, jumping at the kitchen door should be enough to thwart even the bravest of thieves. But what if he was armed?
A picture of my assailant immediately filled the screen of my mind. He was dark, and small, and strangely reminiscent of actor, John Leguimazo, in his short stint on ER last year….
Using the powers of reason still available, I did a quick mental inventory of my valuables, deciding that I was fully insured.
Most days, Shane arrives home several minutes before I do. He calls, as he disembarks the school-bus, and we talk as he walks towards our drive. He’s usually in a hurry, and eager to end the conversation in order to free his hands to unlock the door.
When I answer, he is singing along with my ringback. I am quiet. Listening. Appreciating the gift.
Finished, he finally answers my “Hello”.
“Hey! I had a great day today!”
“Great! I’m happy for you! Tell me what was great about it.” I could do this part of the conversation in my sleep.
“Well…” He always hesitates as he picks through the best parts to give me his favorite.
And while he hesitates, my heart beats just a little faster. What if the John is waiting in the house?
“I had a good day in language arts. Ms. Murray was OK today.”
“Oh, good!” I make a mental note to tone down my enthusiasm. “Any other good news?” My voice, now, is measured, and Mom-like.
“I got an eighty on my math quiz?” He poses a question.
“Wow!” Unbidden enthusiasm creeps back in. “How great is that?” My mind spins, searching for more questions.
“Mom?”, more questions. “I need to go now. I need to unlock the door.”
“Go ahead, honey. I’ll hold on.” Beads of sweat adhere to hair, wisping along my forehead, as I force casualness into my voice.
“Um…ok.” And, I hear “Ok…what’s up with that?”
Holding the receiver ever closer to my ear, I hear the rattling of keys in the lock, the force of paws on the door, and barking.
“Get back!” My son says assertively to his greeters.
“Shane?” I fight for measure in my voice.
“Yeah? I’m about to take the dogs out.” He sounds resigned, placating.
“Do me a favor; before you let them out, just peek outside. Are the gates closed?” I pray he doesn’t hear my ragged breathing.
“Uh…yeah!” He makes no effort to hide his derision as he opens the door. “Yeah, Mom…just like always!”
I laugh, hoping that’s all he hears.
“Cool…”, I answer, nonchalantly.
“How close are you?”, he asks between footsteps.
“Close.”
Wishing I was closer…
Missed Opportunities
Pondering Ponds
I can’t begin to guess how many times I’ve passed that pond.
I’ve run by it.
I’ve walked around it.
I’ve gazed upon it, distractedly, while talking on the telephone, or giving my son directions, or parking my car.
Yesterday, I saw the pond.
The sun was amazing; a true spring sun whose soft rays never quite breached the fabric of my tee shirt. Breezes blew from several different directions at once, playing havoc with my hair and Chevy’s nose, dancing, merrily, on the end of his long, narrow snout.
As we rounded the bend, several geese gathered on one side of the pond. Realizing Chevy had never seen geese up close and personal, I seized the opportunity, and I guided him closer to the clearing in which they had gathered. Apparently accustomed to visits, the geese held their ground. The largest of the group sat upon the bank, and without turning, hissed comically. I laughed softly before cooing my assurance, while Chevy ignored her.
And, then I saw the reason for her anxiety. A mother duck, sporting a single striking blue feather amongst her brown and white mottle, swam into view ahead of four tiny, fuzzy ducklings. The goose took a step into the water as they passed. as if to ensure a barrier between us and them. No sooner had the first duck passed when another mother duck, with several chortling ducklings, swam into view. The goose squawked softly as if to say “Hurry along, now!”, and the family glided past. Satisfied, their long-necked protector retook her position on the bank and settled into her feathers.
Feeling we had disturbed the serenity of this part of the pond long enough, I urged Chevy up the hill and around to another arc of the pond. Without a sound, a pile of turtles sunning themselves upon the bank, poured into the water as we approached; the only sign of their retreat a collection of ever-widening circles.
I knew geese stopped here. There were signs of them everywhere, and particularly upon the walking track which they seemed to target with their deposits. In summer, when the sun’s rays swelter, the smell is enough to force me to another part of the track.
But, I hadn’t seen the ducks. And, I didn’t know the turtles. I hadn’t realized that within a very busy county park, these animals had seen fit to create a home in which to procreate. I had never seen the pond as a place of caring that required caring for.
We left the pond, and headed in the direction of Shane, and the batting cages. I thought, again, of the goose; of her protective fervor for those unlike her, and I appreciated the irony.
We have much to learn…
Traditions in Transition
My family’s Easter traditions became lost in the cry of gulls over pristine white sand. My sister travels to Destin to spend the holiday with my father who, understandably, welcomes the opportunity to visit without travel. Often, as finances allow, one or more of us join them. More often, we do not.
For years, my older children traveled the seventy-five miles between my house and theirs to participate in smaller scale celebrations. This year, my daughter is grateful to have the extra hours at work, and after putting in eighteen hour days for two consecutive weeks, my son is looking forward to an afternoon spent resting on a riverbank, watching the water ripple around his fishing line.
I assembled my final Easter basket last night and felt the finality. The look of wonder left Shane’s eyes years ago, but I’ve continued the ruse, for both our sakes. I admit to feeling just a little ridiculous as I fluffed plastic grass and poured jelly beans into plastic, egg-shaped baseballs. Next year I’ll limit myself to a nice card, and maybe a bag of chocolate-peanut butter eggs.
We’re not a particularly religious family. While my father could be called a religious scholar, given the hours he has spent reading various religious doctrines, only one of his four daughters attends church regularly. I’ve decided that this lack of structured piety is partly to blame for our lack of celebration.
As a child, Easter meant a new dress and a fine white purse to match my shiny, new, white shoes which I would wear only to church. It meant traveling across town to share dinner with a family of friends from Chicago, who marked the occasion by molding butter into the shapes of lambs and crosses. Our Easter baskets were always grandiose things; large and round they were stuffed with chocolate, before being wrapped in pastel-colored cellophane, cinched with matching ribbon. Easter morning found four of them, arranged in a grand display upon the kitchen table. The trick was to slide your hand into the flap created by the cellophane in order to pilfer a peep before Mom and Dad woke up.
By the time my children were born, Easter dinner had become a strictly family affair. Easter egg hunts were added to the celebration, meaning my children usually had at least two opportunities to load their baskets. The hunt at my parent’s house was always conducted outside, while I occasionally chose to nestle my children’s loot against window sills, behind curtains, under a lamp, or between two books on a bookshelf. The children seemed to prefer the indoor hunts. I like to think they enjoyed the intimacy.
“What are we going to do today, Mom?” Shane’s question left me wanting. We settled on a trip to the park. He and his Dad will play pitch and catch, while I walk the dog around the track. It should be a good day for it. The weather is beautiful. Later, we’ll cook out.
But I can’t help wishing there was something more…
Are We There Yet? 
