On early easters that fall in March, my being is ripped in two ("At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.") with incandescently fractured fury and mirth for my younger self.
Fury because, somewhere in time, we are wearing a dress against every force of our not inconsiderable will. Each year, we fight this—dresses can usually be squirmed out of through the exasperated compromise of "dress pants" and a nice, clean top. But never on easter, for reasons we still do not quite understand, and certainly not yet while we are a preteen freeloader with no money to buy our own pants.
Mirth because, on a March easter in Wisconsin, it is cold enough in the drafty church to keep our winter coat zipped over this dress for the entire service—even when traipsing up to the altar for communion.
It has been well over a decade since I have been in a church on easter. I witness only flashes of its coming now as a bystander—ash spread on foreheads, palm branches clasped in hands strolling down sidewalks. I register easter instead as a time to look for an influx of the damned, sale-priced plants in poor health at places like CVS—orchids and peace lilies and African violets. Three continuous easters' violets from the CVS on the corner once made up my prized collection. I did not find any this year, and ended up buying one quite well cared for from a local garden center. It's just as well—I’m still reviving one of the violets I bought from CVS last year and then nearly killed by my own hand (depression). This is the resurrection I prefer to witness.