At Easter, we always dragged a branch of something or other into the house, decorated it with blown eggs that we’d marbled and fluffy yellow chicks with tiny beady eyes.
This year, the dragging-the-branch-in bit went well. During a walk in the woods, we snapped off a substantial hornbeam twig, still in bud and Pascoe carried it home.
Then it stood in a bucket in a corner of the kitchen with family members saying to me “I expect you’ll be putting up the Easter tree soon,” and me saying, “Yep, just as soon as I finish this dissertation/filing/lesson preparation.”
Nothing happened for several days until just before Easter when I got back from my parents and discovered that Nigel and Carenza had sorted it. Carenza had arranged the eggs, Nigel the chicks. It looked positively Pascal.
About a week ago, Nigel started to say, “You’ll be wanting to take that Easter tree down soon.” “Yep, I agreed, just as soon as I get get round to it...”
But this time, it wasn’t really the lesson preparation or the filing that was holding me up: I just didn’t want to get rid of Carenza’s handi-work.
But then the green hornbeam leaves, now fully out, began to wilt. I packed the eggs into their boxes, watched by indignant chicks, and threw the branch out.
I guess I’d better stop clinging on to Easter and start looking forward to the summer when my offspring will return.