It was always our most solemn of holidays.
Christmas was chaotic, the Christian aspect always front and center yet overshadowed by five boys anxiously awaiting the opening of gifts.
The Fourth of July was patriotic, but more a celebration of family as aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents shared gossip around the grill with burgers and baseball taking up much of the day.
Memorial Day was symbolic, our tranquil community bursting with pride as flag-laden streets welcomed visitors to pay their respects at one of the country’s most scenic cemeteries.
But Easter was reflection, heavy on church made more special by my brothers and myself historically taking part in the choral celebration.
Easter was my mother’s white gloves and sensible hat. It was my father’s baritone voice softly harmonizing. It was sitting in the church pew — our pew — five rows from the back, on the right, next to the stained-glass window.
Easter was sweet rolls and blueberry muffins for breakfast. It was a church concert followed by a table laden with every heavenly offering imaginable. Easter was brothers and parents, grandparents and cousins, head bowed in thanks as we remembered that the words “He is Risen” came three days after he died for the forgiveness of our transgressions.
Easter was Whiffle ball in the back yard, our 70-pound dog acting as both outfielder and base runner. Easter was hundreds of gaily colored eggs vacuumed from the yard by friends and neighbors in mere seconds.
Easter changed in 1982.
“He was fine earlier that night,” a longtime friend remembered. “We sat together at Bob’s (Café) and he told me he was looking forward to visiting ‘his boys.’”
Three hours later, while reading in bed, my father died, the victim of a hemorrhage. He was 52.
Months later, my mother, unable to live among the memories, to scale the footprints that shadowed her each night, moved. We never had Easter together again.
My mother is gone now, her second son waiting for her at Heaven’s gates. My father would be there too, along with a cavalcade of friends and family that passed before.
Brothers moved on with their own lives; built their own memories. Life everlasting is through their dreams as their children, my nieces and nephews, carry on the line.
Sunday, at least this Sunday, I won’t be able to sit in church, five rows from the back, on the right, next to the stained-glass window, I won’t be able to listen to the choir and imagine my brothers among them. Yet my mother will still be in her white gloves and sensible hat and my father’s baritone voice will softly harmonize in my memories. And I will look around and know that while we, and others, will no longer be in attendance, no longer be able to share around the family table, I will remember that each of our memories is a means of keeping their life eternal.
And I will smile.
Brian Bloom is the regional publisher for The Laurinburg Exchange, Richmond County Daily News and The Anson Record.
