I thought several times Sunday about getting a family photo. Or at least a picture of the kids in their nice Easter clothes. But it was an incredibly busy day, and at some point I just made the decision that we would all be happier if I let the day move on without it.
I am not that crazy about family photos in the first place. Yes, they are absolutely great for marking time. Yes, I may someday regret the fact that I didn’t insist on more of them. But their penchant for looking unnatural, or the kids’ penchant for making faces, or my penchant for getting incredibly grumpy trying to get the deed done—those things get in the way. And it strikes me that the more I try to get everybody to pose, the less of a story gets through.
But then I got on Facebook today and saw so many lovely pictures, so many friends and their loved ones smiling. I wholeheartedly clicked “like” on picture after picture while at the same time thinking to myself, “You missed the boat again. You are such a dork.” I’m good at that, missing the boat and engaging in negative self-talk.
But here. There is a story I want to tell, and as great and busy and also not-without-squabbles Easter itself was, it comes from the day before:
Saturday after dinner we colored eggs. And the windows were open, and the light was starting to dim. We used eggs bought from a friend, a dozen and a half in many shades of brown. Seven colors, rich and vinegary, the water heated extra-hot in the microwave, gathered in glasses and mugs at the center of the dining room table. Between the dimming light and the brown eggs it was hard to predict colors, but egg after egg rose out of the water a deep jewel-tone. We were in awe, focused on color. Uncertain of outcome but certain of our work.
There are so many things I hope I will not forget from these years: staring at my children in awe of their beauty, holding hands, talking, laughing, I love you. Noticing the fall of eyelashes on soft young cheeks.
And this, too. Coloring eggs and deciding that these are absolutely the best ever.
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