Egg Hunts are Scary

My oldest nephew no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Turns out Santa and his elves are fake, too. When the bubble burst, my mother was most devastated. "I hate to see the kids growing up," she said, more than once and more than twice. "It's just no fun any more when they stop believing." Still, we upheld the tradition of an egg hunt, and this year I found a few bonus items on my search:

• A stream of cobwebs, thick enough to hold a light fixture in place.
• A thank you letter, written and illustrated by my sister 32 years ago.
• A container of used razors, soaking in soap and dirty shower water.
• A stack of old music - crumbling but playable - from my Grandmother's days.
• A bottle of Wasabi sauce - expiry date June '04.
• A patch of lilies, waiting to burst open.
• A capsized lamp post that will actually make sense at Hallowe'en.
• A bottle of vodka, waiting for a glass (thankfully, vodka never expires).
• A Christmas towel that hasn't moved from its rack for 8 years running.
• A basket of eggs - fresh, gourmet, adult chocolate eggs.

Growing up is hard, and it would seem that letting go of old ghosts is just as difficult.  Maybe that explains the bottle I found hidden in the freezer, and maybe my Mom would like us all back at home - young & innocent - so that she doesn't have to witness the loss of childhood fantasy in her family. For whatever reason, my Mom holds on to things until they are dingy, dirty and disintegrating - but her house is full of the past and its voices. Not a bad trade-off, after all.

People are Pets Too

Poor Zara was a six pound bag of farts when she took her last pill. She died in my mother's arms - wrapped in her blanket, I imagine, tongue flopped out to the side, all dry and pasty from months of pain meds. I wasn't there for Zara's final moments, but the vet took great care in making my mother comfortable in Zara's final days. My mother was suffering, so it took time to work out a plan of exit for Zara. Time to convince my mother that the damn dog was rotting from the inside out and it was time to let her expire.

Don't get me wrong. Zara was a family member. Often, I was her babysitter and dedicated caregiver when my parents travelled. More than once, that dog barfed on my carpet and ate my homework - literally. When a meal of pillow stuffing took us to the emergency vet for pets, I held Zara in my arms, determined that she would not die in my care. So, we fixed her up, fed her boiled rice & chicken for a few days and shipped her home - no harm done.

It was Zara's back troubles that did her in. A mini-Dachsund who looked more like a rat, Zara had a long spine that simply couldn't handle its 8 pound load. She was coddled in her blanket and carried out to pee, but she did not get better. Now, Zara's ashes sit on a shelf in the basement and maybe some day my Mom will reveal her intentions for them. I have a horrible feeling she wants us to mix her ashes with Zara's and hold a sprinkling ceremony at the zoo.

For now, there are no pets to replace Zara. Only a 4 year old grandchild, who is frequently wrapped in a blanket, coddled and stroked between the eyes. Zara's favourite spot, naturally.