by Carolin Messier



As a girl of seven,
Easter meant a new dress
sewn by my mother,
and coloring eggs
then hunting them
with a bright basket
full of plastic grass,
a shade of green
not found in nature,
and a chocolate rabbit
whose toes I nibbled,
revealing its hollow center.

As I grew away
from Catholic faith,
the bunny’s hollowness
became for me
the meaning of the day.

As a young woman of twenty-seven,
I mocked faith
and the faithful
having lost my brother
in a watery crash
the year before.
He did not rise again
with the blooming of lilies,
the waving of palms,
or the singing of psalms.
And I had no use
for the mystery
of the resurrection.

As I survived the hardships
of disappointment, divorce,
and other losses
my hardened heart cracked open
letting in the light.

Then as a woman of forty-seven,
I filled plastic eggs
with chocolate treats
and hid them
just to see the delight
in children’s eyes
and once again believe
in the renewal of the Universe,
and the Wonder,
and the Joy,
and the Mystery
that is this single, precious Life.