Easter Sunday by Barely Hemingway
Posted on 08 April 2012
Long drive ahead. It is noble to visit one’s mother for Easter. Visions of eggs, eggs on the side of the road, eggs strewn in violence across highways. Eggs blind the noble force that once was our destiny. Our destiny is eggs. Eggs filled with candy, and Jesus, and the dreams of men.
The children of our fathers eat sugar. They eat sugared treats and go to fight their courageous, child battles. In our homes, they fight. They throw the LEGOs, the yo-yos, the flying discs. The flying discs which are yet to be invented and called Frisbees®. The children break glasses. Glasses of whiskey spill, pouring out our lifeblood, leaving us weeping for unbroken glasses of whiskey.
The whiskey never comes. Only eggs. Eggs, and more cracking children. There is a long drive ahead. We leave with the dusk.
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