previous  |  main  |  index  |  next
April 19, 2003

no place to hide

I'm up early.  Maybe it's resurrection in the air.  Maybe it's the jalapenos on last night's pizza.  But I'm up early.  And nothing feels right.

It doesn't feel wrong either.  The pink sky of dawn's break, the moist, green park, they are reminders of egg-hiding, Daddier times.  I had a rare talent for hiding Easter eggs.  Without conscious thought, I hid them according to ages and frustration thresholds.  Something for everyone: that was the guiding principle, unspoken even to myself.  Challenges for the clever, barrel-fish for the dull, the sleepy, or the who-gives-a-shit-about-colored-eggs crowd.  I cheated for the prideful, the ones who claimed not to care, but who ached for success.

The pink disperses and a whiter light illuminates Mandevilla climbing a rusted iron garden arch.  If I placed a boiled egg in a cup of red dye, and if I fought the itchy urge to remove it too soon, I could reproduce that pinkish-red Mandevilla color.

I see no children in my yard, just a female cardinal with bed-head stepping out on her man.  The egg-hunters are gone, evaporated like morning mist.  And I have no place to hide.

©  2003 by the beastmaster