The Glory of Easter

The day reserved for the celebration of Christ's rising

is everything but.

This year, my brother was the one who took a shower too late,

my parents grumble in response 

while fumbling to find the 70's station on the satellite radio.

All five of us in my mother's '09 Jetta, the "kids" in the back--

do my parents still think we are toddlers,

though the youngest of us is sixteen?

I'm miserably in the middle,

my overgrown siblings' shoulders crushing me--

but they've got one arm free, and

I'm pinched from all angles.

"Maybe we should take two cars next year,"

I say, and mom and dad are offended at the thought,

dad huffing, mumbling "smart alec," 

while mom is completely ignorant to our discomfort,

asking, "Why would we ever do that?"

as if the idea of taking separate vehicles 

somehow negates our identity as a family.

Then mom goes over that bump at the end of the driveway,

coffee spillage ensues

all over my floral Easter dress.

"Damn it," they say. "Why'd you have to bring that damn coffee?"

"Why'd you have to drill that bump?" I reply.

This is how Easter is every year,

a disaster of sorts,

fingers pointing in every direction.

We are late to Church, like always.

Heads turn as we pass, trying to find a spot to stay next to the stained glass.

Standing up the whole mass,

our backs quickly grow tired,

my toes hurting from my cork wedges.

We silently curse the one who made us late

eyes glaring,

betraying our suits and easter frocks.

The sermon is long,

full of the subtlest pleas for donations.

I watch people daydream,

hearing the priest's homily about the fragility of material objects,

and their worthlessness, as I play with my sterling charm bracelet,

praying to find peace in all the familial lunacy.

Back at home,

My family gathers to watch baseball,

hooting and hollering,

while I hole up in my room,

eat my chocolate eggs covered in pastel foils,

feeling that old-school Catholic guilt

for how disgruntled togetherness renders me.