Easter Sunday

A prose poem

Daniela Dragas
Scribe

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From the ‘Letters to my Daughter’

On Easter Sunday, I bought you a bunny, the one you liked, wrapped in shiny golden paper with a red ribbon tied around its neck. A tiny bell under its chin chimed as I placed it in the middle of the nest, gathered from pine needles, leaves, and tears.

A fantail chirped from above, its tail spread to the mild autumn air. It landed on a branch then quickly hopped to another, its round head turning this way and that, beady eyes darting from bunny to flower-seeds SJ and I were sowing, to the coppery ringlets of her hair. And once it had seen it all, it opened its wings and flew away into the vast, leaden skies.

Later, we sat at the table and ate roast lamb and veggies and raised a glass of crisp white wine in your memory, talked about you and the words your mother writes to you, and about you, and for you.

She smiled then, a slow, sad smile that knows of two things that oppose each other: first being that no words could ever be enough, second that for as long as she writes these words, your name is still your name, and you are still her daughter, and she is still your mother.

When the night started to fall, she went home and prayed; for you, for another day, and for words.

Thank you for reading.

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