Old traditions are modified by generations, each fingerprinted by the hands that pass them down. A little change, a twist on recipes written in a fading delicate script on fragile paper. She’ll never know, we say, that we did not heat the sour cream first to yellow edges, it tastes the same.
The missing are missed and mentioned. The toast dedicated to one who waits with hope. The phone call comes, the news is hopeful, but not as good as what we really hoped. We tell ourselves through tears it could be worse. We say we’re lucky, and we almost can believe it.
It is Easter Sunday, and we must rise as is tradition.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology