Today was Easter, and I expected it to feel profound or somehow fraught with meaning — like especially hopeful because RESURRECTION and NEW LIFE and THAT’S THE HOPE WE NEED RIGHT NOW — or especially sad because no Hunger Games style Easter egg hunt with the cousins — but it didn’t feel like any of those things.
It was just a day.
Another day of quarantine. Pleasant. Ordinary in the new sense of the word. The sun shone, and we worked in the yard, and I cooked and cleaned. And cooked and cleaned. And cooked and cleaned.
We had coffee cake for breakfast, my only nod to celebration. And dinner was spaghetti and meatballs — an Easter first. I love balls of meat. I was excited about the balls of meat. But the balls of meat were bland. Sort of meh. Which was fine.
That’s what today was.
I’ve put my finger on it.
It was fine.
But the cherry blossoms are starting to drop from the trees that ring our yard, and it looks like thick snow flurries when the squirrels race across the super highway they’ve made of the branches.
And the wisteria is blooming across the porch.
And the dogwood is flowering.
And Enid is still somehow, miraculously alive. (THIRTY TWO DAYS.)
And the puppy is utterly destroying my clean, pressure washed patio by digging a hole and flinging dirt from yesterday to tomorrow, head buried in the earth, ass raised in a salute to the sky.
And I can smell someone’s barbecue.
And there’s a hummingbird flitting around my yard, little fairy of the bird world, impossible emerald hovercraft.
And a cherry petal is stuck to my dog’s nose.
And I’m sitting outside, watching the sun set, feeling the cold set in, quilt on my lap, fingertips frozen. Content.
So today was Easter. And it and my meatballs were fine. And also today was beautiful. In tiny bits and small bites and sweet puppy butts and falling petals.
And that’s more than enough for now.
One day at a time.
P.S. The puppy enlisted a helper.
Lord love a duck.
This is why I should know better than to clean things. 🤦🏻♀️