easter weekend, 2000
things i remember are the way the sun killed our eyes driving south away from the city, the yelling and the anger. the feeling i had of wishing i could jump into the passing truck-bed of a ford and forget all about your trip and you. sleeping through the tears and waking up curled in a ball against the window, the car pulled to the side of the road, and you passed out in the backseat, so i took the wheel. i took the wheel and drove and drove. this is what i remember, waking you up when we got there with a kiss and an apology and walking hand-in-hand along the shore, no longer angry, no longer hurt.
easter weekend, 2004
alone again. sitting outside under the beating of the sun and the stare of passing strangers. my bare feet hanging over the concrete ledge, my red-painted toes dipping into the cool fountain water. and as i sit here, music ringing in my ear, hurriedly jotting down thoughts and rhymes, i imagine you are probably somewhere on the road right now, driving the drive you make every year this time. only this time, driving it alone.
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its 2:47 a.m, easter morning. in four hours, my alarm will sound and i will get ready for the service. i should be sleeping now, while i can. i should be sleeping, but i'm thinking back on all my easters. the egg-hunts of my childhood in our front yard. crestview drive and doctor mason's golden egg. i remember traditional easter lunch at my grandparents, and that first year my grandmother had to do it alone. i remember the pictures and the dresses and the memories frozen in time.
most importantly, for the first time in a long time, i remember the stone and the angels and the way the light illuminated an empty tomb. yes, i remember the whole point.
happy easter. |
