There was a time when Easter meant
fancy hats, a new spring dress
and pictures after church
under cherry blossoms or crabapples.
More than once, she made us climb
young pink branches, so she, or Dad, or Uncle Ted,
could get just the right shot with the Polaroid.
She never knew how much we hated that.
Losing our footing in patent-leather white
tights snagging on branches,
invading bee-buzzing branches, pollen stinging
our eyes, how could she know,
how did she know what we would suffer,
and would suffer again
for one more Easter with Mom?
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