Mom was big into the holidays. Even the little ones. She's use any excuse she could to buy my brother and me a card and little gift. Those mornings, when she crooned us awake—Mom didn't believe her children should have to be startled away by alarm clocks when her loving voice was available to coax them to the day—and we stumbled down the darkened hall from which the bedrooms fed.

The light in the kitchen was always way too bright in our exodus from slumber, but even squinty eyed and barely coherent, we knew to look for those envelopes on the kitchen table, propped up and showcasing her lovely filigreed scrawl. Life is what you make of it, they always say...well, Mom made life extraordinary. Little things were a big deal. Nuances were cherished.



I was thinking back to last Easter just the other day, how stark of a departure I've taken from my life for this year's coming. I'm not cooking a meal this year, I'm not saddened because Mom was suffering from a new and ugly form of chemotherapy on Good Friday. I missed her so last year. I guess that hasn't changed...and it's also raining again. The skies cry.

I noticed about a month ago that I was attracted to the scent of lavender when I have never been during the past. Straining toward the sweet spiciness constantly, I purchased, for perhaps the first time ever, a parfum from Crabtree and Evelyn that wasn't Lily of the Valley, my scent of the last decade-plus. Mom never wore lavender, goodness no. She wore this terrible headache-inducing fragrance that I hated. Dad once mistook it for bug repellent upon the air. Open mouth; insert foot.

So, I didn't understand the draw at first, but have come to realize that it isn't the scent that reminisces, but the feelings of comfort and peace it inspires. This is what she did to me. Memories cascade about, like long, silky tresses in the soft late summer breeze. Graceful and delicate, I watch them dance and allow myself to feel.

Happy Easter.