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Easter Sunday

Spring is very difficult emotionally - all our tribe is gone now, and with them, those rites of Easter. My grandmother's house, small and blazing hot inside, but cooled on the porch by fans and shade. She, short and shriveled with sharp, lively brown eyes, handing us Easter baskets. Unsweetened, lemony iced tea. Buckets of cool perfect potato salad, fresh corn on the cob, crispy iceberg salad with Seven Seas Zesty Italian Dressing. The smell of well water on the roses and orange blossoms from Proctor Road. Cold beer, a reward after cutting the large yard. Knotty cypress paneling in the cool, dark living room. My father, grilling steak on hot charcoal on the 1950's pinkish leggo-log BBQ, in his silly shorts and Cuban shirt. The smell of charred meat floating in the air. A feeling of abundance and peace. The hellishly hot days of summer are near, but at Easter, it's always perfect at Grandma's house. It's safe here. 

My grandmother died in 1999 and my father in 2009.

Since then, Easter and spring have lost the magic. My memories are abundant and fierce but as you can probably guess, are no substitute. Not even close. 

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