Sunday, April 24, 2011

April 24th

There was sunlight splashed across the tree trunks opposite the pool when I woke this morning. Between the trees the sky was a bright blue. The fan lazily moved the air above the bed. It really is beautiful here.

We are being brutal and throwing away everything we possibly can. Still, there are boxes and boxes of sheer junk left to go through. I'm talking playing cards, small tools, washers, random bits of Army gear like belt buckles and spare shoe laces, ancient, wrinkled receipts, folders, Army manuals, a random sock, loose change and a DVD.

April 23rd, 8:34

Tomorrow is Easter. Little girls with frilly underpants will search under the play set for pale blue and pink eggs, embellished with stickers.

Families will rise before dawn; mothers will blow dry their hair, fathers will struggle to knot their tie and both together will attempt to wrestle their wild haired, sleepy eyed, and resentful children away from plastic baskets recently raided and into something resembling church appropriate dress.

They will stumble out of their cars; they will, inevitably, have not dressed warmly enough. They will stand, shivering, in the grey dawn, with goose pimpled arms and wondering eyes, and watch the light fill the sky.

All the while, the pastor or the priest will talk about ancient burial rites, and heavy, immovable stones being rolled away, revealing the unbelievable, the second, the lasting and true life.

And then everyone will go on to Golden Corral or IHOP and order too much breakfast amid the bustle and warmth of brunch on Easter. They will wait a long time for their table. Tots will bang their spoons, syrup will be spilled, someone will wail. Cranberry juice will be spilled on a brand new white sweater, the one with the sparkles and it will be tragic.

Or they will go to Grandma’s house and be served something less casual, on formal dishes, in the dinning room. Everything will smell like fresh brewed coffee and orange scones. Later on, they will eat spiral cut, honey glazed ham. There will be cut glass crystal.

One day, maybe, Keith and I will join their ranks, but not yet, not this year. We have no extended family to anchor us to tradition; we lack the necessary props.

We do have a ham, though, and I intend to cook it tomorrow, with fresh green beans.