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| Sara Letourneau |
Sara Letourneau is a poet, freelance editor, and writing coach. Her poems have appeared in Mass Poetry's Poem of the Moment, Golden Walkman Magazine, The Aurorean, Soul-Lit, The Bookends Review, The Avocet, and elsewhere. She lives in Foxboro, Massachusetts, where she reads her work at open mic nights, roams the beaches of Cape Cod, and can frequently be found with a journal and a cup of tea. Learn more about how Sara can help you with your writing at https://heartofthestoryeditorial.com/, and read more of her poetry at saraletourneauwriter.com.
A Strange Easter
It’s
Easter Sunday, and I’m alone
in
my dining room, Skyping with my parents
and
my brother over orange juice, black tea,
and
raisin bran with strawberries.
It’s
nothing like the homemade carrot muffins
or
German apple pancake we’d eat together
in
Mom and Dad’s breakfast room during Easters past,
when
it was safe for us to visit.
But
this year, safe means washing hands
constantly,
covering
one’s mouth and nose in public,
and
standing six feet away from each other.
This
year, in the time of COVID-19, safe means
staying
home, seventy miles away from my family.
Our
conversation goes as usual:
How are you doing?
I’m feeling well. You?
Same here.
The
rest is nothing new, either:
Mom
and Dad’s projects around the house,
my
brother’s upcoming (virtual) closing on his condo,
my
freelance editing work,
the
first daffodils to bloom in our yards.
Yet
this semblance of routine is punctuated
by
reminders of life upheaved:
Did you wear your face mask at the grocery
story?
We’ll leave takeout for you by the garage
door.
Will we get to celebrate Mother’s Day
together?
And
all the while, I wonder if I lied.
I
may be feeling well, but my longing to reach
through
the laptop screen and hug my father,
kiss
my mother, and riffle my brother’s hair
pulls
like a sore muscle.
Before
I know it, the past rolls off my tongue:
Remember when we were kids
and we’d come downstairs on Easter morning
and read the Easter Bunny’s message,
spelled out
in fridge magnets, then hunt for the exact
number
of chocolate eggs mentioned in that note?
My
brother chuckles, says, Yeah, I remember
that.
So
do Mom and Dad, and the reminiscing resumes.
And
for a moment, the holiday returns to its jovial,
pastel
self. Yes, it’s a strange Easter,
the
distance between me and them hasn’t changed,
but
we’re together in our mirth,
together
in our remembrances,
together
in the tender ache for what was
and
our gratitude for what still is.
Beautiful, Sara!
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