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The resurrection of sweet memories


Growing up, Easter was my favorite holiday (yes, Easter). Not because I was religious. . . although Jesus is a cool dude & his resurrection story is one of my faves.


But because I always got an awesome Easter basket filled with chocolate aaaaaaand a new pair of shoes. Compliments of my grandparents. (At least that's the reason that I told everyone it was my favorite.)


My grandparents did the best job of making Easter a big deal. Selfishly, I always felt like they did it just for me.


The real reason I loved Easter was because no one else ruined it. The traditional holidays brought a level of panic as I'd wait to see what type of mood my father (bio dad) would be in, which would then inform the type of mood I could be in. It was torture.


But Easter.. . . ahhhhh, sweet Easter. Half the time, he didn't even go to my grandparents with us. It was a pure, relaxed delight.


I was free to bask in the love & laughter of my grandparents house but especially that of my grandfather.


I was his favorite. I knew it. . . everyone knew it. He didn't even try to hide it. I know now, that he knew how much I needed his love. It was the one place my nervous system could finally calm the fuck down. I felt safe.


This is one of my favorite photos of Grandpa. He's not looking at the camera. He's looking at me. So proud. So full of love. And I'm beaming it all right back.


Happy Easter, y'all.


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