My family attended church every Easter, then ate lunch together with extended relatives. Sometimes, we went bowling and regrouped back at my grandparents’ for dinner. Traditions changed along the way, but there was always an Easter egg hunt thrown in the schedule somewhere. The grand prize were Easter baskets, but we had to find them first.
At seven years old or so, I was methodical in opening any gift I ever received, so special care went into unwrapping my Easter basket that year. The treats – sticky fruit roll-ups I handed off to my sister, colorful plastic eggs filled with jelly beans, chocolate bars, and a Mike & Ike’s box – beckoned me to tear through cellophane walls and tangled ribbon, but I patiently unraveled each bit. There was always a hollow chocolate rabbit boxed inside. My mom seemed to almost hover when I pulled out the box, because she did not want us to eat an entire one each. Instead, she melted down the bunnies for chocolate pops and dipped them in strawberries for everyone’s dessert.
This photograph is from last year, during a surprisingly warm week after Easter.
“Which part do you want to eat before the rest goes in?” she asked, heating up a saucepan and stirring some liquefied chocolate bars.
My younger sister, barely out of her toddler years, watched with excitement in her eyes and nibbled on her rabbit’s ears. The chocolate torso smeared all over her little hand as she handed the rest over. My mother dropped the body in and I looked away, feeling horrified. Still, I eyed the strawberries sitting on a plate beside the stove, then looked back at my whole rabbit, safely contained in its cardboard packaging. Its comical eyes were blue and large. Pleading. The strawberries were an appealing red though, large and ripe.
I hesitated.
“We don’t have to if you want to keep it for a bit longer, but then your strawberries will be plain,” my mother responded, hand slowing.
“No, it’s okay. Just…save me the ears,” I relented, watching my sister eat hers with obvious glee.
