There comes a time in each of our lives when we must be honest with ourselves. These little gems of “self-honesty” serve as personal revelations every bit as meaningful as any religious experience one may have on a mountaintop or hallucinating in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights. For me, it came during one Holy Week, that week of high holy days beginning with Palm Sunday and culminating in the glorious spectacle of Easter. Not particularly religious, I was visited with an annunciation of my own, nonetheless.
Merely a month after my husband had demanded a divorce, I remained firmly lodged in denial, filled with utter certainty that I could effect a reconciliation through sheer force of will. Having packed the kids off to my sister-in-law’s for a long-anticipated overnight stay, I bought a bottle of my husband’s favorite wine, prepared some delicacies and lit some candles to set the appropriate mood. Thus loaded for bear, I waited for him to come home.
The minutes ticked past in larger increments until he finally entered, 45 minutes later than even on his latest days. My mood nearly as dark as the twilight sky, I sat in flickering light, frozen with a glass of Rioja in my hand, hors d’oeuvres cooling on the damask-draped coffee table and waited for him to come upon this awkward tableau. Continue reading The Great Chocolate Easter Bunny Massacre