Easter, Central Park

I have just three, distinct Easter memories.

In the first, the year is 1975. I am hunting Easter eggs with my cousins, Kalah and Nancy (she of “Ants, Ants, Ants”) and my brother in the wooded backyard of my Aunt Rosalie’s Baltimore home. I’m wearing plaid pants and a white Lacoste shirt. White, that is, until I slip down the muddy hillside and sully the whole holiday.

In the second, the year is 1978. I’m sneaking around the house before mom, dad and Chris wake up. The Easter Bunnie’s delivered Melissa Manchester’s single, “Don’t Cry Out Loud” to my basket as I had so desperately hoped. I’m nosing around corners and under furniture for eggs when my dad, suddenly towering over me, inquires “What are you doing?” sullying the whole holiday.

In the third, the year is 2008. I’m bar hopping and bowling with Chris, Meg and Abbi. Which is about where my memory ends on that one.

Despite being raised as I was in a fairly Catholic household (mom and dad attended Catholic high schools, Chris and I were alter boys), I’m not terribly sold on the notion of Christ’s Resurrection. Symbolically, cool; I get it. Literally, no way; totally implausible. So Easter’s not high on my list.

Still, I do think of it as the actual start of spring (though this morning’s 36° temperature might indicate otherwise). And so, after a six week near-hiatus from running (following two marathons in four months), I struck out to the park for the second day in a row. And while the morning chill had the early-rising flowers shivering from the cold, the bright blue sky and blinding sun were welcome companion. As was Abbi, with whom I intend to make many, many more Easter memories.