My childhood Easters were spent in a sun drenched Southern California backyard. My five cousins, all boys, my two brothers, my twin sister and I played Easter candy guessing games for prizes and my sister and I did cartwheels and hand stands on the thick green grass.
My first Easter at the Compound was a chaotic morning of rummaging, bossing, thieving, and primping by all ages and sexes. It was the first time I saw a man blow dry his hair. After everyone settled on what they were going to wear, we left the little house smelling like hair spray. We walked four blocks to Church bracing against the cold wind and arrived about halfway through the homily.
As we made our way down the center aisle of the church people were smiling at us, some waving subtly. My future husband, my future in-laws, my future sisters-in-law, my future brother-in-law and I genuflected one at a time before filing into a pew.
After Church we said proper "hellos" to each of the smiley faces, most of them family and so many friends, with double kisses and quick introductions for me. Invitations were extended by all. Some of the cousins were walking home in the same direction and some in the opposite direction.
When we got back from Church, the kids climbed into the family's Chrysler mini-van leaving the parents at home. Sitting shotgun with my future husband driving and all the "kids" in the back, his sister picked up on the sappy "visualizing a possible happy future together" moment we were having and said in a monotone flat voice, "faggoty old couple." The butterflies hiding in my stomach unleashed.
The next few hours were spent driving to visit relatives and friends, walking inside, kissing everyone there, eating something fantastic, sipping a frothy dark espresso, kissing everyone again on the way out, and piling back into the mini-van. We went all over Queens.
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