I know, I know - Easter is over! But the remnants of the day still linger (after all, it's only Tuesday).
Which brings me to speak about this blog that I love and which I thank my friend, Maureen, for introducing me to. It's a blog written by an American woman who, some 20+ years ago, met and married a Frenchman. She writes about family, living in France, antiquing, cooking and more. I love reading her blog. I get lost in the beauty of southern France and the writing of this incredible writer.
She recently posted some photos of things related to Easter (Paques). After writing about some very old postcards, she offered an opportunity for her readers to win one of the postcards. We could write a story in the comments section about the one we desired, which I did. This is the one I want. And this is the story I wrote about it:
The old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that only age, sadness and time could create.
Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty pink roses to those woesome boughs.
Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly, she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.
As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.
Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.
Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.
Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.
"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.
"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.
Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle. The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of hope.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma