Winter is long in the upper Midwest. It usually outwears its welcome. By the time spring pokes its shy head above ground we are color-starved. Not this year. An unexpected week of warm breathed over the land and has the bulbs blooming and the treetops bursting with promise. The earth is laughing. A pair of doves built a nest in the evergreen outside my window, and the robins have settled their dispute over who gets the girl. The rabbits are feasting on tender shoots in the garden instead of stripping bark from my shrubbery, and I am feasting on color. Pink. Yellow. Purple. Green. And foil-wrapped eggs.
Someone has hidden dozens of chocolate eggs all over the house for my husband and me to find. I discovered one beneath my pillow a few nights ago and another in the cupboard among the teacups in the morning. It was the same last year…and the year before. It is still two weeks until Easter so I know the Bunny hasn’t been here, but some bunny has. We don’t go looking for the eggs all at once; it would spoil the fun. Instead, we wait until a chocolate craving grabs us and then snag one from the clock case in the hall or the bookshelf in the study. Oddly enough, the daughter who still lives with us doesn’t eat a single one. She just watches with a gleam in her eyes as her gray-haired parents scour corners for stray eggs like a couple of delighted children.