EASTER SUNDAY

EDITORIAL: ELENA DICKSON

ILLSUTRATIONS: NING CHEN

Mother always said never go into the forest alone.

The grandchildren ran through the yard after Easter Mass. We searched for eggs and candies. I wanted the creme eggs.

As I searched for eggs in my white linen socks and patent leather Mary Janes, I felt the weeds and blades grow around me. My pastel plaid dress swished in and out of bugs and grass and clumps of dirt. Children yelling “Found it!” swelled inside my ears.

My breath grew short.

My mind raced.

I would not find one. My basket was exceedingly light, an embarrassing weight, like a baby’s weight. I was no baby. I was six. I was a big girl. I should have had more eggs.

I ran frantically, pushing weeds away from my face, and cutting my legs. I ran until the grass grew shorter. I ran until sweat dripped down my brow. I ran until the sweat mixed with the tears that wouldn’t stop

I promised Father I wouldn’t cry this year. He liked to say, “For such a little body, there never seems to be enough tears.” I felt big feelings. Grandmother said I would grow into them. I was just overwhelmed, I would get used to the world around me.

With every stomp, tears seemed to fall harder. I couldn’t stop. I threw myself onto the ground, burying my head in my arms and praying to the strange man that woke up from a long nap that day. My Sunday school teacher had said that Jesus fell asleep for three days and that during His sleep He made it so that we could meet God. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wish I could take a three-day nap too. I don’t know if I want to meet Him. My teacher said he doesn’t have a body. I don’t understand why.

When I finally felt my tears slow down, I removed my head from my arms and looked up. The trees shrunk and shriveled and my grandparents’ home looked like the birdhouses in my grandfather’s workshop. I stared in awe as the Appalachian foothills unfolded before me like the lumps under a comforter straight from the dryer. My clothes fit me just the same, the patent leather shoes still covered in mud. I hope my dress doesn’t stay stretched; Mother would have a cow.

My new view did not scare me. My seat in the meadow did not feel daunting. The water tower my cousins and I would meet at was closer than it was before. I did not need to hold Grandfather’s hand to reach this destination. I could no longer find respite on the tire swing and look to the tree branches like skyscrapers. As I stood, I could hear the crunch of trees being pushed beneath me. My feet no longer fit on the path laid before me. My basket stayed small, its empty body looking even sadder than before.

As the tear stains evaporated from my cheeks, my toes began to wiggle and squirm within the shoes that I was not sure would ever shine again. Grandmother would be upset that she would need to shine my shoes again. I stood, feet surrounded by foliage and head surrounded by clouds, and shook. With nowhere to sit, nowhere to go, I still could not bring myself to cry.

Grandmother was right, I would grow into my emotions one day.

Grandfather could not console me with a candy now.

“I will never grow into them,” I thought. I stomped my feet in the mud, forgetting my mother’s warning to not scuff my brand-new Mary Janes. I had already held back tears when she buckled them on my feet before Mass. I hated the blisters that formed along my heels. My grandfather handed me a butterscotch after seeing his reflection on my toes. That was his way of telling me he was on my side.