So yeah, Easter. Spring blooms, new life, all that crap. Exactly forty years back from this one, Easter, we took our little boy to the park, with eggs. Weather was warming up, snow was gone, he was in remission, home with us instead of in the hospital. He'd been eating instead of living off I.V. tubes so he didn't look like Dachau, all sunken eyes and knobby knees. He could walk around, wasn't puking, had a good time playing in the grass, ate eggs, it was a good day. We got pictures.
Back home, while we unlocked the door and put away his stroller, he sat in the porch chair in the sunshine, fell off, bumped his head and went into convulsions. We called the ambulance but they never came, so we got the neighbors to give us a ride to the hospital, he was in a coma and he died after three days. Three days after Easter Sunday, how's that for ironic?
Now, yeah, I'm conflicted. Easter makes me think of Death. Being a pagan sort of person I'm all gushy over Spring, and green growy things, and new life, and Resurrection, --- wait. Shit.
I try to think positive, cheerful thoughts of snuggly Easter bunnies; there's one here now, a cute baby about six inches long. The cat dragged him in and she's on the floor behind me. My cat is EATING the fucking easter bunny. Just perfect.
Happy Easter. Whatever.