Easter

Easter is tiny, multi-colored ovum and bruised feelings, the little one's first exposure to life's dumb cruelties: "Why can't I find an egg?  Why did she find more eggs than I did?  Who the fuck hid these eggs?!"

At least, as a child, you still get candy after that sort of crushing disappointment.  Small pastel promises of sugar, smushed open-handed into your puffy little face, smearing a sticky sweet rainbow into your drying tears.  Somewhere, skittering along the back of your still developing sense of self, you're still wondering, "Why couldn't I find the eggs?  She found so many more, what's wrong with me??"

Skinned knuckles and knees from following the leader of the pack, picking through her abandoned possibilities.