The night before Easter morning, mom laid out my outfit for Easter Sunday services. Every year until I was a teenager, she made a dress for me. Usually it was a pink or a robin egg blue satin dress with little daisy flowers hand sewn on. The little cotton white gloves were always there as well, laid neatly next to the dress on the bed. She got out a clean pair of stockings or laced ankle socks, dependent on the weather. There was a soft white sweater with pearl buttons, well worn because it was my favorite. One year she made me a little white drawstring bag to carry my “necessities” of tissues and paper and pencil. The white Mary Jane shoes with a white flower on the top were laid on the floor at the foot of the bed because it was bad luck to put shoes on the bed. The white straw hat was the last thing brought down from the closet, neatly wrapped in reused white tissue paper to keep it dust free. There was a new grosgrain ribbon added with a button or a silk flower. The outfit was complete. Mom wore the same baby blue dress from last year. It looked good on her. She was petite with a small waist, and the fullness of the tea length dress from the waist down covered her full hip from baring four children. She was lovely and sweet, and the epitome of beauty on Easter morning. Her white purse with the silver clasp slipped over her gloved hand, and held mom stuff, including paper and pencil for me and my brother to keep busy during services. It was a magic bag seemingly full of everything we might need. Dad drove us in the station wagon with early warnings to behave in church that day. As we rolled around the vinyl seats with no seat belts, he smiled in the rearview mirror. He was dressed in his suit and tie held in place by a tie tac, and he smelled of English Leather aftershave. His pocket held a white handkerchief and gum or cough drops.
I loved going to church on Easter as a child. My brothers had to wear suits. My sister was old enough to make her own clothing choices. Everyone was bright in their Easter outfits and the smell of flowers filled the church. It was a room of light and hope. Kids were excited because after church there was usually a family dinner coming with kids and egg hunts. My favorite part of that church experience was the complete silence as the story of the resurrection was told and I watched the face of everyone around me glued to the front of the church. I could only see them and the dark wood bench in front of me as my feet hung free and swinging off the padded pew.
Years of wear on the church pew caused the top of the bench to have small ripples even with my eyeline. I put my hand out in the small indention from thousands of hands holding onto the wood as they rise and sit in coordinated worship. Up-down, sing, down, pray, up, sing, down, listen. I would hear my mother’s small high voice above others singing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today…” and she held the hymnal down so I could see it even though I couldn’t read it. Dad’s arm was always around me as we sat in church. I melted into his arm and took a deep breath of his aftershave and looked up at him. He looked down and winked, then looked back up at the preacher I could hear but not see. My brother usually sat on the other side of mom because he could not stop picking on me. My sister was typically giving him “looks” to stop doing something. That was the circus of going to church as a family, taking up the majority of a pew in a packed Easter service, and trying not to get caught misbehaving by dad.
I knew that Easter morning memories would always bring me back to daisies, white gloves, mom’s singing, and the smell of my dad’s aftershave. I didn’t have to see anything then in the pew or now because I can feel it. I feel hope, faith, respect, and thankfulness.
sherrystruthtofiction 