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Somewhere in the house a basket is hidden. The children have risen with the roosters to begin the search. Behind the couch? In the hall closet? On the back porch? They attack each potential discovery spot with the gusto of a band of pirates sinking gleaming shovels into Mother Earth, in hopes of reclaiming a misplaced, buried treasure. Their search is intensified by the promise of what lies in the basket. Sweet rewards, the rumors promise. Succulent sweets, exotic delicacies surrounded by intoxicating colors that put nature's best rainbow to shame.
Why is the basket hidden, I wonder? The coffee stain on the rug isn't. Or the peeling paint on the veranda. Nor, for that matter, are the photographs depicting now broken unions and shattered vows that mock us from their perch on the mantle-top. But the basket--the basket is hidden.
Meanwhile, the parishioners kneel and pray. Jesus looks down on them unable to lift his head from the rugged cross to which he's been nailed. "He died for our sins," they reassure one another, as they secretly smile at the new sins they created the night before. The minister says something about rebirth. I understand him implicitly. The others wonder if they've put enough money in the plate, or will they have to leave the church with heads down, like the lord. The minister finishes his sermon with a loud thump on the Bible. "The answers to all of life's questions are in here," he says.
I raise my hand--they raise their eyebrows.
"Why is the basket hidden?" I query.
"What?" says the minister.
"Blasphemy," whisper the flock under their collective breath.
"Why is the basket hidden, when what's inside is what we need most?" I elaborate.
The minister stares at me in disbelief.
"This is neither the time, nor the place, my son," he answers.
I stand up to leave.
"I hope you didn't need the Bible to tell you that," I offer over my shoulder as the lord and I step outside together.
Back at the house, the children still are searching. Chairs have been overturned, plants uprooted, beds de-sheeted and cupboards stripped bare. Still, the basket remains hidden. Where are the adults, I wonder? Where are the wise elders to offer words of wisdom to an impressionable lot?
Suddenly, a moment of clarity.
They're searching, too, and they can't even remember what for. Shaking my head, I reach for a quill and some parchment. I lay down the following words as a declaration to the joy of rebirth.
If you need me I'll be down at the Glen,
with my baby. Slowly unwrapping the
sweet mysteries, which she placed in
my basket--one month before Easter.