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He is Risen! Alleluia!

In past years, I’ve shared some Easter favorites – from candy and hymns to books and breads. There were family photos and stories of sick kids missing out on egg hunts. This year, I have something a little different. Something short and sweet. A little flash fiction featuring a new character who will be the protagonist in a forthcoming Christmas short story and eventually (God willing!) a novel. Meet Marigold.

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I pressed my body as far back into the seat as humanly possible as a half-melted, decapitated chocolate rabbit and two rock-solid Peeps changed hands across my lap. If I survived the return trip from Easter Mass in the way-back of our mini-van without globs of pink sugar and splotches of poop-brown on my pale yellow dress, it would be an Easter miracle.

Crammed between my little brother and sister, Peter and Lily, I shifted in my seat, trying to find some leg room. Spacious, the back row was not – at least not for a fourteen-year-old.

Under normal circumstances, I sat in the middle row, which offered both leg room and a USB port. It didn’t protect me from assaults by the members of the peanut gallery behind me (who sometimes literally lobbed peanuts at me), but it in terms of comfort, it far exceeded the present situation.

Today, however, Grandma had accompanied us to Easter Mass, and she rightfully took my seat. At her age, with stiff joints and all, we’d never have gotten her out of the way back. Not to mention she’d probably emerge with a mild case of PTSD, courtesy of Peter and Lily.

Beside Grandma, in her car seat, Clementine snoozed peacefully, having cried herself out during Mass. Nothing seemed to please her, an ordinarily easy-going baby. Mom held her, rocked her, and nursed her. Dad bounced her. I even tried all my best tricks – making silly faces, tweaking her little toes, and cooing happily. Nothing worked.

Bad enough we’d been relegated to standing room only in the choir loft (thanks, Christmas- and Easter-only Catholics), but we were that family with a bunch of kids, including a screaming baby.

Grandma didn’t hear so well, even with her hearing aides, which thanks to Clementine, had probably been an advantage. Now, she sat quietly, staring out the window at the passing trees.

Pale green, tiny leaves graced the tips of lean branches, and here and there a blooming redbud tree stood out, its purplish-pink blossoms a stark contrast to the pale and dull colors still blanketing most hillsides.

On her lap, she clutched a small wooden cross with white Easter flowers attached – lilies and other flowers I couldn’t identify.

The van made a sharp turn, forcing me against Lily. Better the Peeps than the chocolate. Less chance of stains.

The van bumped and bounced as we pulled into a narrow gravel driveway and climbed a small slope. Beside me, the little kids made exaggerated noises and complaints as the vehicle rocked from side to side.

Finally, we reached the crest, and Dad parked the van.

Bonnets, Basket, & Bunnies: An Easter Linkup with flash fiction for Easter! Click To Tweet

“Marigold,” Mom called, craning her neck to see me. “Would you help Grandma out?”

I unbuckled and wriggled out of my seat, then supported Grandma’s arm as she stepped out of the van and toward my mom. Peering up into the brilliant sunlight, I hopped out of the van and ambled across the grass with Mom and Grandma. Warm sun seeped through my cotton dress.

Grandma shuffled to a stop in front of a new marble headstone with Grandpap’s name engraved across the top. She stooped, Mom holding her steady, and leaned the cross against the stone.

We stood in silence a few seconds until Grandma’s muffled sobs sent a knife through my heart.

I squeezed Grandma’s hand, and Mom rubbed circles on her back until she regained her composure. Then we said a few prayers aloud – an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be for the repose of Grandpap’s soul.

When Grandma turned to head back to the van, I expected to see tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes. A look of utter grief and despondency. Instead, she smiled at me, her eyes watery but filled with joy.

“Ah, Grandpap’s the lucky one,” she said. “His first Easter in heaven.”

My heart swelled and tears filled my eyes. I’d been so pre-occupied with myself this morning – being displaced from “our” pew, the cranky baby, being smushed between my siblings and their sugar rush – that I’d given little thought to the meaning of Easter.

I knew, of course, about Easter. In great detail, in fact. But I hadn’t taken to heart what the Resurrection meant on a personal level.

The hopeful look on my grieving Grandma’s face taught me more about the hope of the Resurrection than any lesson ever could.

It meant joy in the face of grief. Hope in the midst of suffering. Life conquering death. And love as the source of all good things.

Mom hummed an Easter hymn, then sung aloud when she reached the chorus: “Resurrexit sicut dixit . . . “

I didn’t know Latin, but I knew that hymn. Grandma, in her warbly soprano, and I, louder than called for at a cemetery, chimed in:

“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleuia!”

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