Easter Sunday

I awake this morning with a kiss on my forehead and a soft male voice saying "The Easter Bunny has prepared breakfast for you."  I'm not ready to wake up yet, but how can I not honor this lovely offering.  I throw my legs over the side of the king sized bed, choose a pink top for this Spring holiday morning, run a brush quickly through my recently permed hair, wash my face and hurry downstairs to see if I could yet help the beloved chef.  The Easter Bunny is sitting in a chair in our newly remodeled kitchen watching a sports channel on the tv over the new gas fireplace while he works in a Sudoku book.  He jumps up when he sees me and says, "The hashbrowns are ready, I'll do the over-easy eggs now."   When I look into the frypan, the hashbrowns are the perfect shade of golden brown.  I go out to the porch laundry room to start the coffee, Vanilla Nut Royale this week.  I send back East for my coffee.  I can't be described as a coffee lover; I drink coffee every now and then, mostly as an after dinner treat when dining out and occasionally in the morning at home.  This Easter Bunny has lived in my house for 44 years this coming August.  He is my soft place to fall, my hero, and my irritant when he can't find the clothes hamper which resides at the foot of the bed.  I have such respect for this man, especially in the way he fathers our only child, a son about to turn 33 years of age, two days before my Medicare birthday this month.  I know for this treat of breakfast on Easter Sunday, I will return the treat tomorrow morning with something special:  probably Irish oatmeal and blueberry muffins.

     This is a sad Sunday as I watch the news and learn of the deaths of Thomas Kinkade and Mike Wallace:  one a surprise and too soon, the other in a golden year and part of a long goodbye for his family.  Leaving this Earth has become a more frequent subject for rumination after experiencing the six year decline of my beloved mother who reached the age of 97 with such grace and kindness.  It has taken me two years to reach the place where I can let the bubble of my personality return and remember Mom with the joy and respect she deserves.  I will remember Mr. Wallace and Mr. Kinkade today as I work the last stitches of my afghan and prepare deviled eggs for an afternoon snack.