Easter Monday is always a bitterweet day for me. It 's the day my mom died, not long after my arrival in France. She and my dad made the trip to the wedding in February, and they had a great time. Two months later she died, and I wasn't there to be with her; I didn't even know anything was wrong until it was all over. I take that back. I did know something was wrong, just not what, and I felt like I wanted to go home.
That was 11 years ago, and perhaps I haven't dealt with the grief in the right way. It's as if the feelings stay under the surface until something -- a word, a memory, I don't know -- brings them back. It's like one of those scrapes you get: it doesn't hurt much, then the next thing you know there are little dots of blood all over it.
Cheesy analogy, maybe.
Two years after my mom died, on Easter Monday, my beautiful daughter was born. That's the sweet part of this symbolic day.
The cursor is blinking at me and no words are flowing to meet its demands, so I'll quit while I'm ahead.