Cousins

Small dishes of color, wax crayons, glitter, and stickers. The smell of vinegar and a little sulphur. Dozens of eggs. We gathered round to dip and decorate, two generations of cousins plus our Aunt Bethie. The youngest ones made quick work of a few, cracked some open for a snack, and sneaked out the door to explore. The oldest ones, we took our time with wire ladles, striving for stripes, poking around for polka dots.

Years ago, it was us in the back while our mothers tended the eggs. We pushed the limits of the yard into a cemetery. Names and dates on tombstones, imagined backstories for the dead. On the foot of one vault, instead of flowers, there were cans of coke. A bag of chips. Cigarettes. A candle. Not one would dare steal from a ghost. No, we ran home to sneak under the arms of our mothers. They were there every time.