I am crazy about the Easter Bunny. “Bun-Bun” my mother called him. Assuming it is a him. When my little sister Duvall got older and started having her doubts about Santa Claus, she remained steadfast in her furry basket-filling friend. “There might not be a Santa Claus,” she declared, “but there SHOR’ IS A EASTER BUNNY.”
She was 35 at the time.
I was going through some old letters (remember those?) the other day and ran across this card my mother sent. Inside she wrote, “Sick, I know.” She was wicked, our sweet mama. Our bunny never had a limp, even after we were grown and out of the house. He still hopped over in the mail, chocolate included. And good chocolate, too, peanut butter eggs and fancy praline ones and all. None of this marshmallow nonsense.
Speaking of of nonsense, I’m in the habit of silly Easter posts. Having inflicted upon you, dear readers, a series of infantile knock knock jokes year before last, and a riveting treatise on the Easter Bear last year, I see no reason to quit while I’m behind.
Apart from silliness and chocolate eggs (and that’s a big “apart”), Easter is the celebration that life, like my sister’s idea of the Bunny, is eternal. Hallelujah.
Happy Easter. Hope the Bunny finds you.