This picture is my daughter who is now 20! She asked for matcha tea for her easter basket this year!
I thought I had egg dye,
extra boxes up in the attic with the decorative bunnies,
two of which have lost an ear over the years,
two bunnies I position artfully so as not to alarm guests.
No one noticed the lack of tin cups, brimming with color.
I even baked the same pineapple cake
that received raves in the past
and yet this year remained almost whole.
There was once young ones at my countertop
who jockeyed to break open cellophane packaging,
who added vinegar, who waited for dye tablets to dissolve.
Despite my children’s independence,
I can’t can’t, I do not not
make easter baskets for them,
even my oldest, who is 26.
When pressed for desired contents, he suggested
an offering he would share at brunch,
Opal apples and raw cheese.
I thought this poem would be about loss.
I thought I needed to grieve my patch-worked tradition,
that my family has aged out of.
So much of my care has been material,
little party favors left on banquet tables.
It was a relief to not buy jelly beans and synthetic grass,
lovely instead to choose the largest yellowest apples,
cheeses from both far and local creameries.
My son has begun baking bread,
thick dark loaves he ferments before baking.
For a week following Easter,
I cut a thick wedge every morning,
eat it with butter and the leftover goat cheese,
infused with honey lavender.
So much my children do,
I have not taught them.