A Journey Through Easter Past

Sometimes I miss being a child, and how special the holidays were, that tiny spark of magic that formed in the pit of my stomach, rising into my chest, threatening to combust.

The magic of those Easter mornings wasn't in the elaborate decorations or the perfect feast. It was in the simple things – the smell of cinnamon, the warmth of family, and the joy of discovery. As I look back, a bittersweet pang hits me. I miss that innocent excitement, the world seen through wide, curious eyes. I truly miss the magic of those old-fashioned Easter mornings. I suppose a little spark of childhood wonder can ignite even the most grown-up heart.

Every Easter began at Mamaw's house, a symphony of anticipation that started long before sunrise. My cousin and I, partners in delightful pre-dawn mischief, would barricade ourselves in her bedroom. Whispers would turn into excited shrieks.

Our aunt, a magician in our eyes, would bring us the most beautiful Easter dresses, identical down to the last detail. We'd erupt from the room, a whirlwind of twirling fabric and infectious joy, feeling every inch the enchanted princesses we were in that moment.

Ah, coloring eggs at Mamaw's – that was an event in itself! The sharp tang of vinegar hung in the air, a unique Easter perfume. We'd create masterpieces, each splatter and swirl a testament to our artistic genius. But there was always one special egg, reserved just for Mamaw. It wasn't the most colorful or intricate, but it held a love only a child could understand. And Mamaw, bless her heart, would treasure it like a priceless jewel, long past the point where the yolk became a forgotten memory.

Mamaw's tiny house, always brimming with a cozy familiarity, would transform. The wonderful aroma of apple stack cakes, a sweet and comforting fragrance, would fill every nook and cranny. It mingled with the savory scents of turkey and roasting vegetables, a symphony of deliciousness that announced the coming feast. This wasn't just any Sunday dinner; it was an Easter celebration, a promise of warmth, family, and pure joy.

The true enchantment unfolded the night before Easter. We vibrated with an electric anticipation, barely able to contain the butterflies erupting in our stomachs. Armed with our most prized wicker baskets, we'd embark on a clandestine mission under the cloak of darkness. Each carefully placed basket, hidden in what we believed were the most ingenious nooks of the yard, felt like a secret whispered to the night. Yet, come morning, the baskets would overflow with colorful bounty – a testament to the Easter Bunny's uncanny ability to crack our most cunning hiding spots. It was a delightful mystery, a whisper of magic that solidified our belief in the wonder of the holiday.

Sleep, usually a welcome friend, became a reluctant visitor the night before Easter. Our minds crackled with a delightful frenzy of questions. What did the Easter Bunny truly look like? Did he sport a pristine white coat and enormous pink ears, the embodiment of a cotton candy dream? Or was he a fuzzy brown fellow with eyes that sparkled like mischievous stars? Was he a towering giant or a miniature marvel, a creature of pure magic condensed into a tiny form? And the most pressing question of all – how in the world did he manage to carry all those overflowing baskets, delivering joy to every child in the world under the cover of night? These mysteries swirled through our minds, a delicious concoction of wonderment that kept sleep at bay long after our heads hit the pillow.

The relentless march of time finally ushered in dawn. With the first rays of sunlight filtering through the window, we'd burst from our beds, a whirlwind of pajama-clad excitement. Rushing, hearts pounding with anticipation, we'd discover our baskets – transformed overnight into overflowing treasure chests. Candy in every color of the rainbow, chocolate bunnies with mischievous grins, and plastic eggs filled with sugary treats – the Easter Bunny's generosity knew no bounds.

Dressed in our matching dresses, a symbol of the shared joy of the day, we'd head hand-in-hand to the church. The air vibrated with a different kind of magic on Easter morning. The church bells, usually a familiar Sunday morning call, seemed to ring with a joyous chime, their melody tinged with the promise of celebration and renewal. Each peal echoed our own burgeoning excitement, a symphony that announced the arrival of Easter Sunday.

The Easter egg hunt was a yearly ritual. Armed with a wicker basket and a heart full of glee, we dashed out the back door. The backyard, usually a familiar space, transformed into a magical realm under the morning sun. Brightly colored eggs peeked from behind flower pots, hid amongst the blades of grass, and even dangled precariously from tree branches. Each discovery elicited a squeal of delight, the basket filling with a rainbow of painted shells.

Church bells faded, replaced by the warm hum of returning to Mamaw's haven. The tiny house, usually echoing with comfortable silence, would be bursting at the seams. Our extended family, a joyous, sprawling mess, would squeeze elbow-to-elbow around the table. The feast, a testament to Mamaw's love and culinary prowess, awaited. Anticipation simmered as the plates piled high with steaming delights, a glorious reward after a morning brimming with magic. It was in this embrace of family, surrounded by love and laughter, that the true spirit of Easter unfolded.

A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washes over me whenever I reminisce about those Easter mornings. Mamaw, the heart of those gatherings, is no longer with us. Our once-boisterous family, a sprawling network has shrunk as life took its course, making way for new generations and their own Easter traditions.

My once-inseparable cousin and I, bound by those shared experiences, have been scattered by time and miles. Yet, amidst the pang of loss, those Easter memories remain vibrant. They shimmer like precious jewels, a testament to the enduring power of family, love, and the simple magic of childhood. The world may move on, but the warmth of those sun-drenched mornings at Mamaw's house continues to hold a cherished place in my heart.

Though time has spun its web, weaving us into grown women with children of our own, a flicker of those two little girls still resides within. Deep beneath the responsibilities and routines of adulthood, their laughter and wide-eyed wonder echo in the halls of our hearts.

They say, on a quiet Easter morning, if you happen to drive by Mamaw's little house, you might just catch a wisp of laughter on the breeze. A faint echo, perhaps, of two little girls in matching dresses, a magical memory lingering in the very air, a testament to the enduring spirit of Easter mornings past.