I may be biased, but I don’t remember one rainy Easter Sunday during my childhood. But then again, accuracy is not what I’m striving for at the moment. I remember sunny Easter mornings when tree buds were covering the fruit trees like a green veil bearing the promise of sweetness. I remember that my sister and I would always get a new outfit, dress and shoes, for Easter. It was a time of renewal, although no one called it that and it almost sounds pretentious to do so now, but it really felt like it.
I am. Not mine perhaps, but other people’s. People I love. People who love me. Five years ago my mother passed away. And with her died a whole world. The world I took for granted, that solid ground I was stepping on thinking it will always be there for me to step on, the unconditional love that I finally realized how privileged I had been to have.