It’s been seven years since you died on Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day and Easter were your favorite holidays. Being in the garden with your family in the Spring. You came alive. You were never unpleasant like you could be at Thanksgiving, ruining the holiday for everyone. Something about Spring made you effervescent. Jubilant.
Memories of legs of lamb, of Bloody Mary’s. Of you in pastel short sleeved shirts and a straw hat. BBQs in San Juan Bautista. Times when the family all seemed to want to be together. My brother, his wife, my kids, my ex, my dad. Later years in my brother’s garden. My dad, my brother, his wife, sometimes my mom, sometimes my kids if they weren’t with my ex. Laughter and joy.
That family now split asunder. Mom and dad are gone. My brother and his wife no longer bother with my family.
My children are my family now. I’m the matriarch, the grandmother. We’ll make new traditions. We’ll sit in the garden and laugh, and breathe in the Spring together.
But in my mind are ghosts. Ghosts of times that were. Of joyous gatherings on Spring Sundays to celebrate rebirth, renewal, and family love.
Happy Easter, Pappy. It’s days like this I miss you so.
