An unlikely place. My mind says shhh, but my heart says joy. Laughter, shoving, wrestling with a tacky pink blanket, a cool morning, three excited children, three sleepy adults. Easter isn’t much of what I remember as a child, at least not all of it. I remember hunting Easter baskets as our children do and some years they were the tacky ones packaged in crinkly plastic, the ones I drooled over at Kmart and some years they were more pristine, eggs and candy and even a cabbage patch doll.

My brother and I each got one, though he was too old and used Eddie Barton (name on the birth certificate) to torture me. I might sell it, he would say and Eddie sat undisturbed in that box for what seemed like forever. When I could count on Adam being gone, I would sneak in his closet and take Eddie out and comfort him. Somehow, that’s how I remember Easter. Nice clothes, blisters from new shoes, a fancy lunch, a gift, all memories of what was largely an idyllic childhood.

Laughter. Fighting. Teasing. Hunting Easter baskets. Those are the things I’ve experienced with my own children. I remind myself that none are a given from year to year. No, my family’s history reminds me. One year we had a happy Easter, the next I bought my brother a bunny and gave it to him in a hospital bed and the next year, there was no more hunting as it’s not so fun when you have lost your confidante. The joy has come again and I’m filled with thankfulness. Easter is death overcome in so many ways, the simplest example of hope, and for me, a load quite lightened with the most amazing light.