An Easter of the senses

Below is the post I was working on April 22, the day I had the stroke. Although I didn't get to actually post it, I am going to now. As I have learned so well  now may be my only opportunity to do so. So here is my 2012 Easter post . . . a little early.

Easter was here. I was three or four. In my childish perception, Easter was a complex holiday, wrapped in the mystery of a spiritual significance that was in the very air we breathed in our daily life.

It also induced an excitement that had the undersized, nearsighted (although that condition was as yet not recognized) child version of me quivering with anticipation. The eggs had been dyed the night before and were ready in the basket for uncles and Daddy to hide. Cousins would be there with their baskets and eggs.

My aunts and Mother, all exceptional cooks, would be bringing loads of favorite things to eat. The gathering that year would be at my Aunt Thelma and Uncle Reuben’s home on a high hill, in the midst of pine trees, way out in the country.

I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember the numerous hugs and greetings that were always an essential element of these get-togethers. I don’t remember the meal before the Easter egg hunt. I don’t remember the explanation about the prize egg. I don’t remember the instructions about boundaries of where the eggs were hidden, that year in an area of pine trees where my uncle had burned the undergrowth to decrease danger of forest fire near their home.

What I do remember is my first step into that area, clutching my basket, empty except for the traditional green cellophane “Easter grass.”

To my nearsighted eyes, a fairyland stretched before me, enveloping me in waves of sensation.

The forest floor was a soft, pale purple blur punctuated with swaths of bright green grass.

I recognized, from close-up encounters, the glorious fragrance of all those violets that individually contributed to the pale purple landscape. I rolled the idea of the violets around in my mouth, certain I could taste them. Underneath and oddly complementary was a faint scent of burned-to-a-crisp vegetation.

I stepped forward and felt, beneath the green, the burned grass resist then give way, sounding a sharp crunch that blended with the sounds of cousins’ squeals and laughter.

I was immersed and ecstatic -- in Easter.

I don’t even remember the egg hunt. I do remember happy and hilarious Easters with my cousins when I was older. But that early Easter will forever be one of my most vivid childhood memories.