A conversation that took place before eleven on this fine holiday:
Me: "I think it's fitting. Quite possibly the quintessential Christian feeling." (Ok, I don't think I actually said quintessential, but it's the word I was looking for at the time.)
Mom: "What?"
Me: "Guilt." Laugh. "I've got enough guilt to start my own religion!" Laugh. Pause. "But you know what I don't have?"
Mom: "What?"
Me: "A cat named Easter."
*
I'm not at my dad's. I'm not on the way to my dad's. I'm not having brunch with my dad's family. I bailed this morning. I tried to do it regally, by which I mean I left my brother a phone message this morning when he was still asleep, and I was temporarily awake, telling him that I love him, and I'm sorry, but I couldn't do it today. I tried to bow out gracefully, by which I mean, with as little upfront discussion and personal guilt as possible. I had a good reason after all: I woke up feeling underwater. Seriously. I realized something. The doctor's statement about not being able to hold my breath through a trip longer than the one to Wi is true, and the actual function of the days I put in between active or social days is not simply to allow introvert recoup. It's also to separate one event from the next, to make sure that I do not have to hold my breath for longer than a day at a time. Ever. That's why I started homebound. That's why, that's why, that's why. And that's why when I woke up this morning, I could not understand that going to my dad's and then to my brother's (where I had put very few escapes in place because I've been focused on Wisconsin, and where I would not feel comfortable saying, "I have to get out of here!" or safe that the statement would be taken into immediate action) did not mean holding my breath from now until (next) Monday. And when I understood that, I knew I needed to cancel. It's good information for me, for the doctor, and I had to cancel. I had to. I chose to, and I had to stay with that choice. Even though my brother then badgered me with everything I'd miss - including a preview of his newest album. He wasn't trying to hurt me, or even to pressure me uncomfortably, but it made me want to cry. He doesn't understand the problem. I don't know whether or not to explain it to him. I don't know whether or not that would make a difference. He thinks I'm mildly sick today. My dad was given an equally vague message, slightly more accurate - something along the lines of I'm not up to it today, and I love you, and call later if you want to - left while I knew he'd be at church. Bad daughter. Bad sister. Bad girl trying so, so hard.
Mom says, "What do you want to do today?" I don't know. I've been joking a lot, trying to refract the energy, to move it away.
I said, "Let's have a Daria marathon. ...Or - we could watch Finding Nemo with director's commentary. No, seriously, Mom, I've never seen that!" It's true I haven't. But I never expect her to take me up on it. She said she needed to get out in the sun, that it would help her. She said she's in a box, and that she didn't think I would be here; she thought she'd have time to be in this box without it injuring me. Bad, guilty daughter. I almost asked her this morning if she was ok with me staying home. Then I realized it was a ridiculous question, and if not, she would tell me it was, tell me of course she was fine, glad to have me. Never mind that she started crying when she got off the phone with my sister, quickly wiped up the tears, saying, "Don't worry; I'm ok."
I said, "I'm not worried, and you're not ok." I'm not worried beyond normal anyway. I said, "You don't have to quit crying. Hell, I'll join you." And she laughed, but only for a moment, and she did quit crying.
I forgot it would be Easter. I forgot it matters even though I don't know why. I forgot that it's not the same sucky holiday it's been every other year. It's the new sucky holiday. And I wasn't prepared. I was focused on next weekend. I was focused on the dream.
Somebody come hold me and tell me I have time to feel all this before Friday, and if I don't, it will wait until I'm back to burn me up again. ...My sister's throwing up. Often enough to be bulimic, except that she's not making herself do it. She used to get sick like this all the time when she was little; I don't remember it really. My mom told me a few days ago; she said she'd been debating whether or not to let me know. Sarah's going to doctors. There's talk of how it's a family thing. Mom gave me a plate of pancakes (and we used to have this Easter brunch that spread across the table, with fruit salad and...) and asked if I remembered the days of [insert awful nickname for my sister that begins with the word Barfing.] I had pancake in my mouth. I have a rule few people know about. It says, "Say vomit or throw up. Don't say any other word for that ever." I was still holding the fork when it was time when it came time for me to answer. I wanted to cry for a million reasons, and I don't know ten of them. Well, maybe ten, but not more than that.
My brother played the Easter Bunny for the kids in his new apartment complex. He put up a notice to let the parents know the Easter Bunny was coming, and then he bought a bunch of plastic eggs with candy (I think he said Cadbury Eggs, which I hate, but everyone else in the world loves) inside them, and put them out in the yard last night after he came home from this awesome jazz show. (More awesome stories for his biography.) He said the best part is that there's a rabbit who hangs out in the yard, so all the kids will think that rabbit really is the Easter Bunny. I think the best part is that he's my brother and he does stuff like this. A few weeks ago, he was in a mall, and saw a display of children's art from some local school. He liked one of the pictures he saw so much that he called the school. He talked with the principal, the art teacher, eventually the artist's parents. The girl is in first grade; John's asking to use her art for his soon-to-be-released third album. The whole community's in shock. She's a star, and she has a twin sister who I want to do something really cool for, but doesn't it suck for both of them if every time one gets an accolade, the other gets one also? This is not everyday affirmation, though. Indie music and underground musicians do not exist to first graders. This girl is famous in her eyes, and of course, my brother is God. So, if you were confused about your theology, the Easter Bunny is God and also my brother. But I still can't tell you how the hell rabbits lay eggs. (I did put up a display of my own bunnies on the piano. They've taken over. I used to bring them out every year, but I haven't done it in awhile. It made me happy for a few moments. It makes me happy now.)
Happy bouncing bunnies, friends. A few days ago I could get closer than that, closer to the meaning of the holiday for those who religiously celebrate it, closer to the meaning like Beth described... Right now, I'm back with bunnies. And I really need a hug.
...Remember when it was actually fun to dye eggs, and we used to fight to draw or write on them in white crayons? Remember how I always wanted to do a million (scarcity complex, blah, blah, blah) and so they were always pale, but Dale and Sarah and Joe would leave them in until they were dark blues and greens, and absolutely beautiful? And remember how that was the one day of the year anyone cared about the white Crayola? The one day of the year when those of us who still had crayon boxes were sent in search of white - and ok gray and silver if you must - because it resisted the dye and let our pictures show, and our names? Remember when it rained, one of the last Easters, and John and I were sent into the basement during one period of seasonal let-up because "someone had spotted the Easter Bunny" and we certainly couldn't see. Because our older siblings were out putting eggs in the world's most impossible-to-reach places. Remember. Remember, remember.
So, it's true for this family, too. The best kind of closeness, the best love, lets you survive even the loss (or the mangling, or the slow and painful transformation) of it. ...All the same, I've had my suffering, and I don't want my cross. For the second time in not long at all, I'll end an entry with this question:
Rabbit... where'd you put the keys, girl?
~me