Nic Narrates

Apparently, I’m supposed to have Easter plans.

I haven’t “celebrated” Easter in five years and haven’t seen my family for the holiday in as many. It isn’t a big deal really–I’m not religious, I don’t quite understand how eggs and a bunny got involved in the first place, and I certainly don’t miss the Easter grass (I never did like that stuff). So why do I suddenly feel like such a charity case?

All week I’ve found myself caught off guard by well-meaning conversations and the ensuing questions about my Sunday plans. Co-workers talked endlessly about travels to visit parents, the marrieds decried their brunch hosting duties and kid-friendly Easter egg hunts, and even the ex has meal plans.

The thing is, I wouldn’t have even felt the need to have plans of my own if no one had asked or insinuated that I ought to. I was serenely oblivious. And now, I’m not. Now I feel…well, I miss my family. I’m nostalgic for a time and a home and a family that I can never have again because we’ve all grown up, moved out, or passed away. Such is life, no?

I find myself remembering dying eggs with my mom and brothers in our yellow and maroon kitchen with newspapers to protect the table and the oven grate to dry our eggs. I remember one year in particular when my brother Ryan (who was still in a high-chair) proudly dyed–and cracked– his eggs by dunking them, and his entire hand, into the dye-filled tumblers. Grandpa was the only one who had the patience to peel away the fragmented brownish blue green shells of Ryan’s handiwork and then eat the stained egg inside.

I miss the daffodils and tulips and my favorite, hyacinths, that would bloom in the flower garden in front of the house I grew up in and can no longer visit. I miss shopping with my mom each spring for a new Easter dress for church, where we would inevitably freeze in our flimsy lace and polka-dots and eyelet. I miss my Grandpa because I’ll never share another Easter, another anything, with him again.

Easter isn’t what it used to be for me and hasn’t become what it will be for me yet. For now, it’s only a whispered memory in my ear. I’m sad for what is gone, but glad for the memory to miss.

Filed under: singletons, work in progress by Nic