The Last Easter

People were crying in the streets
mom's hand closing the blinds
slapping me light across the face

"I told you to keep it closed,"
she whispered; her eyes were like mine
when I saw the monster in the closet

I'd never seen mom afraid before
but it somehow made me strong
like chocolate makes me happy.

"Why is everyone sad, mommy?"
"They aren't ... sad," she said
and laughed, clown-like, not funny.

"They're hurting themselves!" I said
because I could hear the moaning
and screaming and all the loud shouting.

(Mom would have told us to be quiet,
sternly, by now; their moms must be
screaming to, or maybe not afraid)

"The Lord has returned," mom said,
and: "An actual Good Friday."
Her smile odd, crooked, sad. Funny.

"Mommy?" I said. I knew about Jesus
from Sunday School, and how he'd return,
but everyone sounded wonderfully afraid.

"We all hope He has rose-coloured glasses,"
mom said, nodding to the door outside.
"Your father says only the heathens will be spared."

"Where is daddy?" I said. "Is he okay?"
Mom just stared at the door, holding
my hand too tight, saying nothing.

"I guess this means no Easter Bunny?" I said.
"I liked chocolates," when mom looked at me.
And she laughed and laughed and laughed

And she hugged me, so tight, as if I'd break,
or she would, and she laughed again and
told me she loved me, so much, and didn't let go.