On Sundays, we walk toward the bells. Winnie and Harry had a bit more to tote for Easter: flowers for the cross and baskets for church yard eggs.

While working in a Moldovan village one April, I washed my hair in a basin near a bowl of deep crimson eggs. Meant to symbolize Christ’s blood, the Eastern Orthodox tradition stood in stark contrast to the otherwise grayed shades of the kitchen and washroom. In our first attempt at replication, Winnie, Harry, and I created a syrupy dye with red onions. We will try beets or brown onion skins next year with the hope of a more vibrant hue. Or perhaps Paas.

Four babies in five years. Each with a rhythm all their own. Harboring each tiny soul, to feel the variations of kicks and spins and turns, reminds me anew of the sacred gift of our shared space.