Most holidays have been compressed and tucked into tiny compartments. There were some good ones. And then there were some best forgotten. But that one stood out, not because of the food, a big ham; spring pink and salty, a platter of mashed potatoes, green beans, and pie. Did we have lit candles, or cloth napkins?  There was nothing to distinguish the day other than the fact there was a lot of food on the wooden drop leaf table with the tired red trim. I don’t recall it being covered with a cloth. The whole meal, not rationed, not surplus food. 

    We would have been given our Easter Baskets - the cellophane tight against the sides, the chocolate eggs nested amongst the crinkly plastic grass and a trio of yellow ducks, squishy and sweet. 

   How old was I? Nine, maybe ten. That morning, before ham and pie, Gram delivered a hand made dress trimmed with lace, a scattered bouquet of oranges, peachy with some buttery yellow. I raised my arms up high and she pulled it down over my head. Later, after the last of the candy had been consumed, I went out to the driveway, where I would tap, tap, tap, and then that girl, with her glasses, and slightly bucked teeth spun around, like the dancer in the jewelry box on the bureau in my room. I was a pretty girl with a brand new dress, the black leather patent shoes, and a belly full of food. Anything was possible.