It is Easter. The apartment is quiet except for the gentle cycling of the upstairs unit’s washer spinning. The silence of mornings is my favorite, a few brief moments I can process lifee without the noise and onslaught of conversation that comes from housemates.
Mom has told me I have to wear my nice shoes, the white patent ones that press on my toes. “How will I climb the trees out back?” I ask her. I am eight and I like to climb trees.
“It’s one day Lydia, you can behave for one day,” she responds shortly, pulling a brush through my hair. There is dirt under my nails and I pick at it mindfully, knowing she will be mad if I say more.
I crawled out of bed for this brief moment of solitude; Luna curled up in the canyon between our bodies. J didn’t even open his eyes, his breathing deep and his exhales signaling to me he still slept.
My sisters and I are matching. My brother, Kurrin, wears slacks and a white shirt. He looks handsome. I, the eldest, am supposed to be their role model. Mom chastises us for how noisy we are. I tilt my head back and forth, so my blonde hair swishes over my eyes cutting the bright light into flashes.
“It’s Easter goddamnit,” my Mom says as she pulls into the church. “Just try for once to not act like a wild child.”
There is a part of me that misses seeing sunrise, but my schedule is the opposite of normal, so I’m not sure I would know how to wake that early again. Outside the sun has risen, and the trees are still without the spring winds.
“It is Easter. The day of rebirth. The day of atonement. The day of hope,” echoes the crowed. I can see the paintings of Jesus’ life and death as I walk in the church doors. Grandfather has placed fern fronds along the floors to represent palms. People stop me to tell me I look pretty and pat me on my back. I don’t want to look pretty, I want to go outside to the woods. My hopes are quickly quieted as the organist begins to play.
Last night before I slept the news was of 20,000 americans dead. We are due to “reopen” our country this week, despite being in the crux of the spread of this virus. Oregon has been safer than most places in the world. But nothing feels safe anymore.
This is the day that the lord was reborn. He is risen.
“He is risen indeed,” the congregation hums together. I fiddle with the edges of my dress, it is white with delicate flowers of pink and pale grey. My hair is short at my shoulders and my dress shoes hurt my feet. The church is bright around me. Cascading trails of origami peace doves hanging from the ceiling. 1,001 tiny little paper birds we folded and laced together.
“This is a place of peace,” says Pastor Eileen. She wears a draped light pink robe embroidered with silver doves flying upwards. Her hands face upwards, bright light flooding through the stained glass behind her. “This is a place you will always be safe. This is where the world outside stops. This is where we find peace.”
In the filled sanctuary, everyone bows their heads to join her in prayer. My eyes never leave the ancient stained glass windows, the view of the forest behind the church, the way the light moves through the strands of cranes as they dance under the tall church ceiling.
1,000 cranes means a wish will come true. 1,001 means we can hope for wishes to come.
I stare at the cranes, wondering if Jesus ever wanted to fly away too.