2) When I was 2 or 3 years old, I found the golden egg at the Easter egg hunt at church. I remember the jiggly energy of running from egg to egg, pink, blue, and green, nestled in the dry grass. But when I saw the golden egg everything went still. It was different than all the others, bigger, and made of pure gold. I squatted down and it took both hands to lift it. As I raised it up, the stillness turned to chaos and shouts of "Annie found the golden egg!!" I felt a squeeze around my waist as I floated high up into the sky and onto my father's shoulders. Still holding the egg, I looked down at the fine brown hair on the top of his head. Feeling the lumbering left-right sway of his shoulders as he walked us back to the church, I distinctly remember thinking, without the language to express it, "This is going to be an interesting life".
In honor of magical things in Vermont fields, today's tag goes to the Orb Weaver Farm. Just a few miles from where I grew up, and famous for golden cheese rather than eggs.
No comments:
Post a Comment