Here’s an Easter poem.
It’s never been my favourite holiday. All that forced gaiety (I speak of Catholics) about the “rising,” and the massive baskets of gargantuan, alien-like palm leaves lining the church vestibule.
Those unsettling paintings of a bearded man bathed in light emerging, floating, eerily, from some cave-like structure. I was supposed to find comfort in the images but frankly I found them foreboding.
And three masses for us to sing through as the student choir, from the airless darkened loft above.
I know. I should cheer up. But all these memories resurface, unbidden, (I won’t say resurrected) each year at Eastertime.
The chocolate made up for a lot though.
Easter Morning Once.
A new dress, even if it had been my sister’s.
Fresh perms and white cotton gloves.
My boring knee socks and yearning to wear stockings like my older sisters.
My wee brother at my side in his clip on bowtie and tartan vest
And little pressed trousers.
We four positioned, solemnly, on the stone church steps before Mass
In the harsh sunlight of the still chilly April morning
For the obligatory snapshot,
Our secret smiles as we huddled together,
Counting the days until summer, warmth