the sky is beer-bottle gold. we’re driving fast along white-out lines, aiden eating red, purple, green plastic rings and me, writing an article amidst granola bar wrappers and apples slightly bruised. beside me, trent, listening to his story on the mp3.
we share a bottle of chocolate milk and some cookies. trent teases as i somehow miss my mouth, crumble cookie ‘cross my shirt. i poke his arm. silence, as we return to story and typing and grey of road passing.
we’ve spent easter in the capital city, easter on a sugar farm watching maple syrup drip from trees onto pancakes, easter playing scattegories, easter eating chinese and kissing crusty-nosed nieces and nephews. and Jesus rose, within the cathedral of a living room, the sanctuary of the woods, the chapel of a kitchen. he rose in my sister-in-law’s voice as she spoke of community and christendom and desiring to be more as a mother. he rose in the peal of child’s laughter, the squeal of bum on slide, the harmony of lullaby singing.
and now, we sit in the silence of car wheeling home and feel him rise between us, among us, the ever-present Christ making easter out of the every-day.
