Easter was

Easter was Santa Cruz, green and wet after the rains that scared us. It was Cadbury’s Crème-Filled Chocolate Eggs and a week off from school.

It was the temporary house on Juniper Terrace, a few streets up from our real house, the flooded one, the one where daddy carried me on his shoulders above the muddy centipede-infested water and out the door.

It was Easter Sunday morning risings for interminable mass at the parish on the hill – the only thing that stood in the way of chocolate. Religion was inconvenient at six years old.

It was chocolate eggs bought and carefully hidden in the upper cupboard by mummy (we climbed and looked and touched and smelled when she wasn’t looking). Those were so much more exciting than our boiled versions brought proudly home from school covered in gaudy poster-paint designs.

It was peeling the foil back breathlessly, careful to leave it intact to avoid melted chocolate on tiny hands, pressing the egg gently in half, scooping out the creamy center with my right index, trying to avoid a big, sweet mess on my new Easter dress.

And sneaking back for another when all that remained of the first was my six-year-old chocolaty smile.