Every where I go there is left over pastel candy. Easter morning brought bagels and a road trip. We passed church parking lots filled to the brim and little girls in matching pink plaid jackets crossing the street with their equally put together parents. Men in pleat fronted khakis parked suburbans and smoothed out their striped ties. BJ and I listened to xm channel 42 liquid metal and kept the windows up. The radio read our mind but we had no idea what it was thinking when it played children of bodem again for the thousanth time. I have taken to singing dragonforce really loud and playing accoustic drums on BJ's knees. It's the evolution of affection and you'd be suprised how quietly it marches on. Yes you can listen to Shai Halud, I'll just close my eyes for a bit, I love you.
We pulled into the neighborhood and down the street that I used to ride my bike on. The yards were so perfect. As if every lot was in a constant competition for shrubbery of the month. You know, a nice one, not too expensive. My grandparents were there, the rest of the family to follow. Nancy showed us her new car as enthusiastically as any person could before their head explodes. It's a red acura. Mine was a mazda MPV van. Hers wins. I brought Dave's dulcimer back and picked up one for myself. It has flames carved into the body and the neck to hide a deformity in the wood somewhere. It works, I have no idea where the wood begins and ends. My grandpa is an excellent dulcimer builder and I aspire to one day become an average player. I've got twinkle twinkle and When the saints go marching in down. Next stop carnegie hall.
My grandma made the coleslaw we love so much. There were pulled pork sandwhiches and asparagus and home made applesauce and a rasperry vinagarette salad and on and on and on and into my belly. The kids sat on the picnic table across from eachother talking about the decemberists and how skinny jeans make your hips look big. Bri and I talked about California and the man that she's fallen in love with. After dinner the dam broke and my grammy could no longer hold in her questions... Katie, are those real tattoos. No they can't be. Can you scrub those off? Why did you do that? How long have you had them? How have you kept them from us for so long? Why did you do this to your grammy? You have more? Is is catholic? Ave Maria? I don't understand? You're so beautiful how could you mark your body like that? If you need the transcript, it's easily found- my mom taped the whole thing on the family video camera. It's all there, the look of shock and horror the follow up of Bri saying that it looked as if the torch of dissapointing grandchild had been passed to me, the prodigy has fallen short and life can resume with the star faded. It's all there.
BJ and I tied our right and left foot together and practiced walking through the back yard for a while getting the cadence down. A three legged egg hunt was about to begin and we were all paired off and looking ridiculous. With the exit of all the baby boomers into the eschelon of puberty and beyond, my mom came up with a way to bring the tradition egg hunt from the playground to the battlefield. Ready set go, pushing and shoving and falling all over the place. I laid on my back and sank an inch into Saint Augustine lawn. Get up get up, I can't. I'm tied to you, remember? We stuffed eggs into our arms and hobbled to the next, with every step BJ growing more determined to take out our various cousins and aunts and uncles. Bigger steps, Katie, you're walking like a weiner dog!!! We ended the game in third place. $1.58. At least we had a place on the podium. This was easter and I held him tighter because I didn't want it to end.
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