Every Easter, my husband makes two eggheads,
which represent him and me, meticulously
handpainted with a brush. I have wild hair
and blushing cheeks, blue eyes, smiling.
He wears a black construction paper tophat
to cover his grey hair, miniature wire eyeglasses,
and a beard made from a cotton ball.
Last Easter, he gave them to my daughter,
who kept them up on her mantle most of the year.
She hugged him, suddenly twelve-years-old again,
as they both clung to an unspoken love.
Yesterday, the grandkids had no school,
ice hockey tryouts were over, the sun was shining,
so we gathered with 41 eggs, an extra head of lettuce,
three boxes of Peeps, and Resurrection Stew.
As my daughter deftly cut up raw vegetables,
a chicken was roasting, bunny sugar cookies were
cooling, music playing, hungry young males
wandering through grabbing something to eat,
I realized how blessed we all are
to have each other.
After eating, the table cleared, coloring eggs,
my husband sat with an old children's art case
full of crayons, colored pencils, watercolor paint.
I watched my daughter help him trace a circle,
their heads almost touching, her voice calm,
a role reversal from so long ago, when he was
the one helping her.