Playhouses, popsicles and a maypole with my pigtailed pixie.

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.

Growing steadily for six months, we quietly announce baby number four.

I would have dotted his single-candle cake with these yellow flowers. Born on St. David’s Day a year ago, Bear would have come to recognize the Welsh holiday where narcissus decorations predominate as his own. Truth be told, I had only days ago tried to uproot the weedy green shoots that emerged from under our boxwoods. Josh had a go at them too. Yet, they persisted. After reading an article about the saintly significance of March 1st, I’m now glad they did. Another, always welcome, reminder of the boy who so thoroughly and irrevocably captured his mother’s heart.

In his honor, we chose to have our priest bless our home, and say a prayer for our darling Edmund. This Greek Revival was purchased with the vision of two tousled haired boys sleeping on opposite sides of the fireplace upstairs. It remains as much his as it is ours. We toured room to room with Winnie sprinkling holy water, praying that the God of all comfort would fill the space where we remain.

“We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”