I couldn't make it right. There was nothing in the city of South Pasadena to make me feel like life would ever get better. Holidays were always my mom and I, alone in our tiny duplex.
When Easter rolls around instead of getting nostalgic for Cadbury eggs and pink bows on dresses, I get a buzzing in my brain. Can you hear? It sounds like 'Ni'.
Piles of Starburst jellybeans and Sea Monkeys are tucked away in the corner of the closet to be brought out an hour from now (or whenever I can't take Evan harassing me anymore) and 48 carefully taped plastic eggs are scattered throughout our apartment. I've made Mangalitsa croquettes and a seven-layer jello mold in the shape of a rabbit. I cook like someone is paying me every single Easter, as a gift for those who rolled the rock away.
I go to these lengths to push back my story. To tell you 'Life is not this anymore. Look how I've risen. See my transcendence' but in truth the only Easter dinner I can honestly remember, the single one I can see, hear, taste and feel is one with my mom, a pizza, and a Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake on that April Sunday in 1983.