by Margaux Sky

Created on: March 06, 2010

My father would awaken me early on Sunday mornings, as early as seven o’clock. Church didn’t begin until eight o’clock, but he loved to do his yoga routine first thing in the morning and didn’t want to be interrupted once he began his ritual. Once I was cleaned up and in my proper Sunday dress and my chapel veiled was bobby pinned into my hair, my father and I would walk the five blocks to the parish church. We loved walking to the church instead of driving, even in the cold winter.

This particular Sunday, though, was Easter Sunday, a gorgeous April spring day in Chicago, Illinois. The trees were beginning to bloom, birds were singing beautifully, and that wonderful, fresh, moist aroma and feeling of spring’s arrival floated on every little wisp of wind that splashed our faces. The newness of spring always posed a smile on my face, and as I looked up at my father, he was wearing a comfortable grin, too. Often, my father and I walked the five blocks to church without speaking a word. This Easter Sunday was one of those days. With other members of my family, I didn’t feel quite so comfortable as with my father. We understood words were for communicating, yes, but words weren’t necessary all the time. Sometimes, silence and the beauty of nature were all we needed.

After Sunday mass, we walked to the local bakery to get pastries for the family. Forgetting it was closed on Easter, we walked to the Red Owl and picked up some store bought doughnuts and Danish, not nearly as good as fresh baked goods, but these would do. My father was going to make breakfast when we got home; his homemade Apple Pancakes topped the menu. Once home, I helped him prepare by peeling, coring, and slicing the apples while he prepared the batter the apples would bake in. He threw some bacon in the broiler, the thick apple smoked bacon that was nearly a quarter inch thick, and it would sizzle and pop and smelled so delicious! It was this aroma along with the coffee that would prompt my seven brothers and sisters to come down the stairs one by one.

While my father and I were cooking breakfast, my mother would be assembling Easter baskets, filling each basket with various colors of shredded filling to bulk up the basket. She’d dress the inside of the basket with tiny milk chocolate eggs wrapped in a rainbow of colored foil, a large butter cream filled bunny, some pretty beads, colored jelly beans, a stuffed animal (usually a rabbit) and a special

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