The girl sat impatiently on the couch, the backs of her little legs swinging and hitting against the off-white fabric in an even beat.
She tugged on the hem of her knee-length, pastel dress in an irritated, hasty manner, not used to wearing skirts and disliking the experience so far.
A voice called from the room over, “Okay! Ready?!” She clumsily jumped from the couch, nearly toppling over the small wicker basket filled with green, glitter, cellophane grass.
“Go!” rang the voice, and the little girl began to search. Under the sofa cushions. Behind the ugly (but maybe strategically placed) potted plant. In the remote control caddy.
A small, tumbling tornado of a child whirled its way around her, yellow cellophane grass flying out in every which direction as her younger sibling tore through the house, more eager and ahead of her. She didn’t try to keep up.
The girl picked up a couple of filled plastic eggs and neatly deposited them into her basket, a few baubles in comparison to the small mountain already teeming over the edge of the other child’s. Then, she looked behind the couch. Nothing. She continued to look.
The younger skipped into the bedroom and squealed out happily – more eggs! More candy! More than the older one found!
She ran at the elated sounds of discovery, lightly brushing the curtains with her fingertips, already billowed out by the eager chase and spring breeze flowing through the window screen. The air smelled like the neighbor’s rose bushes and freshly cut grass. She was too late.
“Done!” cried the gleeful, young thing, hoisting the treasure of colorful, glittery sugar on top of the living room couch with a triumphant smile. The girl shrugged, looking half-heartedly around the tousled room and stared down at the few Easter eggs in her basket with a smile – it was the same every year.
She wasn’t in it for the chase or the eggs. She didn’t particularly like either, but the younger one bounced around with such enthusiasm around the holidays that it was impossible to feel disagreeable enough to protest. She lived vicariously through the younger child’s innocence and joy, and was able to feel like a child with her prospects should – carefree, a bit competitive, and silly without the self-consciousness for acting so.
“I think you missed behind the couch,” her mother said, sounding somehow closer than earlier when the hunt began. She looked up; her parents stood in the doorway, watching her intently.
“I already checked the couch,” she replied, resuming a sure, slightly aloof demeanor. Challenging silence answered her.
Hastily, she stood up on the couch, her feet bare, and peered over the top of the couch. She gasped – there was a large stuffed rabbit, complete with floppy ears, an exuberantly cotton-puff tail, and a purple bow.
She wrapped her arms around it, but it was too heavy to lift.
“But…how?” she questioned, her eyes widening in disbelief, “The Easter rabbit is not real, and Jesus doesn’t care about bunnies or candy…”
“Well, this holiday is all about Jesus being alive when everyone believed He was dead. You checked behind the couch and nothing was there, and now there is…” her Catholic mother trailed off, nudging her father.
“It’s not a miracle like Jesus being alive, but magic is real,” her father affirmed with a cough, rubbing his abdomen lightly.
As I hugged the rabbit to me again, I couldn’t help but agree.
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