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.