It hit me why I’m not feeling so cheery this Easter. It’s the first year that there will only be three of us home for the holiday. That’s why I’m feeling all sentimental. I’ll miss hearing the sound of cupboards and appliance doors squeaking open and thwacking shut in search of Easter baskets. I think these semi-adult kids still take great pleasure in the search.
I’ll miss the group laugh during the yearly retelling of our story about the time we came home from church to find a squirrel perched on the fence eating the last of our Easter hunt treats. The squirrels cleverly had their own hunt while we were out of the house. Can’t you just picture it? "Hey, hey, Skippy, they’re gone, get moving, it’s a gold mine." We dug up the odd buried foil wrapped chocolate egg for several years after.
I’ll especially miss all three kids turning to smile at me in church when our talented organist revs up for my favourite rendition of Jesus Christ is Risen Today. Bad Catholic that I am, the pleasure I derive from that moment in a church I don’t frequent nearly enough, is almost sinful.
Throw in a little anniversary anxiety, a year since Chuck’s Easter week heart attack, and the complexities that has added to our life, and that explains everything.
Mr. almost-all grown-up, soon to be seventeen, has been asking me to knit him a Piet. Meet the Easter Piet, who will be hiding in our house, in a nest of plastic grass, Purdy’s chocolate and sugar free gum, waiting to be discovered by a certain six foot tall little boy.
Life's a Stitch 
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