It Being Easter

Mom used to hide the Easter eggs up at the summerhouse, a cool, white, open pavilion, the interior walls of which were painted robin's egg blue. There was a slate terrace with three wide steps going down to lawn bordered by a rose garden, and slate alcoves for sitting. Vines with long beans we called "tumba pumba beans" climbed the outside walls. We stomped them underfoot. We held spoon races, our arms outstretched, balancing a pastel-dyed wobbly egg in a tablespoon. We wore Easter dresses with white ruffled anklets and red leather or black patent leather shoes. Our parents' friends came for cocktails after church and brought their children.

This past Sunday, Mom sat in her wheelchair in the sun wearing a straw hat and a green shawl, fastened with an art deco pin, jaunty and dignified. The great-grandchildren - The Greats - grasped baskets and searched for dozens of luminous eggs which I, wearing white furry rabbit ears as the Easter Bunny's helper, had hidden in plain sight.

"I might look near the stairs..." I hinted to my grandson Tripp.

"Let him find them himself," his mother said. "Try that bush," she added.

"I just keep yooking," Tripp said happily.

"Sank you," he said as he placed each egg into his basket, a little Buddha, celebrating his world.

Nicola, nearly five, wearing a lavender dress and a white bow in her hair, found the golden egg. Julian, a bit younger than Tripp, preferred sword fighting with his dad, Towson, each brandishing an alarmingly large bamboo pole.

"Put that down, Julian," my sister Helen told him. "Towson!" She addressed her son, "That's not safe!"

Helen had decorated the table with straw rabbits, yellow straw chicks, baskets, Beatrix Potter place mats, and green linen napkins. Katherine had brought orange tulips, the color of Mom's sweater, the color of sunset. The Greats milled around, eating cheese and crackers, until the quiches were ready.

"Gogs is worried because she can't remember a toast," my brother-in-law called gently from his seat near Mom.

"Why doesn't Amy give it, as the eldest daughter," Helen suggested.

I stood, the daughter who for a long time had never quite felt part of, the naughty black sheep, the once upon a time incorrigible young woman, now the eldest daughter, a mother, grandmother, sister, and aunt.

"Here's to family," I said. I babbled thanking everyone, making toast after Perrier toast. "To those not able to be here." (My son Will, my sister Tina, her daughters.)

"Here's to Oliver, " My nephew Chris said, "The newest Great."

"And to Nicky," I followed, "The eldest Great."

"And to Tripp," my niece Helene added, "The second eldest Great."

"And to Julian, the intrepid sword fighter."

I watched as the three elder Greats beamed with joy, as the youngest Great chewed a piece of cracker, as they reveled in the light of simply being adored, of just simply being.

After lunch we sat on the terrace in the sun and began taking turns telling an Easter Bunny story. "And then from inside the burrow came a deep-throated..." my brother-in-law was saying.

"Oh, no," cried Tripp and scampered onto his father's lap.

"Oh, no," Mom said as we began to leave. "Please don't leave me. I have to catch a train; will someone please take me to the train."

"It's okay, Mom," we said. "You're not alone. We're here."

Helen would stay for awhile with her son and grandchildren before the care givers took over. I would take my brother-in-law and nephew to the train before driving back to Vermont. My daughter and her husband and the boys would go home for naps, Tripp cradling his Easter basket in his lap.

I would call Mom from the road, and later again that night, just to say over and over and over: You're okay, you're not alone, I love you. I love you.

Row the Boat Gently

Tripp is bouncing on his trampoline. He is wearing fire engine red pants and a blue and white striped shirt.

"Wo, wo, wo you boat gently down the steam!" he sing-shouts.

I am keeping time with a tambourine, and Ollie is chewing on blue wooden castanets shaped like monkeys.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a deam!"

After the eighth round, I insert an alternative verse. As Tripp sings "merrily" - or something that might be "meow, meow, meow," or a combination of both, I sing, "I want more ice cream!"

Tripp flies off the trampoline. "No-o," he says, amused. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a deam!"

"But, I like to sing I want more ice cream."

"Okay," he says after a few seconds of reflection. "I like to sing life is but a deam."

Later, in the bath, as Ollie splashes the water from his perch in a purple safety chair, his entire body quivering with delight, Tripp sails his boat - a tiny truck perched on a blue rubber duck - "awound and awound" the tub. He sings it his way, and I sing it my way, and then he chuckles, gently acquiescing, as we both sing the chorus together I WANT MORE ICE KEEM! Even his mother joins in.

This is how I do it when I go back to visit my family. First, I play with the boys, building cities from Legos, where all of us live in Tripp's imagination. I hold Ollie who lives to bounce, his muscular little legs mighty springs, propelling him endlessly from the floor or my lap. Ollie and I touch noses. Tripp and I read books about real planes.

"This is an experimental plane, " I explain. "Here are the engines."

Tripp nods, leaning in. "Experimental pane," he whispers.

"Maybe some day you will fly in your own plane," I say.

"Wis you," he says.

After supper and bath time and jammies on and some more singing and jumping off the plastic potty, it's bed time, which is sacred time for my daughter and her boys and their dad, and I know it's time to go.

*

Mom is lying in her hospital bed when I walk into her room at home after leaving my daughter's house. The rails of the bed are draped with quilts, and she is tucked in up to her chin, cosy and safe. Joyce, the young night time care giver from Ghana is leaning over her, her hand on Mom's heart and they are saying the Lord's Prayer. The trust in my mother's eyes and the kindness emanating from Joyce opens my heart and the tears come.

"Hi, Mom," I say softly, "It's Amy."

"Oh, Amy. Have you written any books today?" I study my mother carefully, look into her blue eyes, which can barely make me out, note the transparency of her delicate skin. I touch her face and kiss the top of her head.

"No, not today," I laugh. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm forgetting everything."

I think about how hard it must be for her, how frightening to lose her bearings. Sometimes she thinks we're all in Vermont, and she asks me to come by for dinner. She might be back in time to her childhood in Garden City, where she played hopscotch with her best friend, Mary T., where her grandparents had a farm, and their own railroad car. She remembers watching Lindberg take off from Roosevelt field - or did a few weeks ago. She asks for her mother, her childhood dog, Nicky, talks about playing a particular golf course, worries about what's next, worries her life has not held meaning.

Once, when we were sitting together at lunch, she asked what I thought heaven is like. Being a Buddhist, I wrestled with what to say. What's needed here? I wondered.

"I think it's a beautiful blue sky Adirondack day," I said, "and Dad and all your friends and everyone you've ever loved are waiting for you. There's probably a big party somewhere, and bridge and golf."

I have no answers, but I know what's important is to let go and enter her world, wherever she is, with all the love I've got, hold her hand, kiss her.

The song is right: Life is but a dream.