da Eggs!
da Eggs!

Asta asked how Easter started.

Apropos of nothing, really. The windows were down and the sun roof open to the blue blue sky, yet not a hint of superstition wafted in on the breeze. We were in my little red car zipping along to the Nelson (art classes) and listening to The Beatles.

Actually we were all “singing” along to Eleanor Rigby at the top of our lungs. The Astas are particularly enamored of the line “…wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door”. Asta Jr has asked several questions about this: how big, exactly, does a jar have to be to hold a face? Is this a plain jar or a decorative one? Does Eleanor have several jars for her differing faces? And why a jar, come to that? Why not a basket that could also hold flowers? That way her faces would smell pretty…

I started with rosy fingered Eos, whose tears created the morning dew. Brother of Helios and sister of Selene. Mother of the Winds (Zephyrus, Boreas, and Notus) and the Morning Star (Eosphoros).

Unlucky in love, Eos unhappily fell in and out of that manic condition several times, cursed, so it was said, by Aphrodite because Eos had once lain with Ares. (Women!)

Later Eos would become Ä’ostre…

But, alas, we had arrived; no time for that now.

Off they skipped (yes, skipped…) to class where for two hours every Saturday they indulge their creative sides in a fashion society has deemed an unnecessary, certainly fiscally irresponsible, part of a public education.

Forgotten was Easter or why it’s such a big deal that old man in a dress washed a girl’s feet.

This morning Asta told Nora she woke up all night long, too excited to sleep. She had left her blinds and windows open, hoping to catch a hint of a hopping bunny. And she wants to have a ‘serious talk’ about the Easter Bunny today, when her little sister is otherwise occupied.

We wonder if she espied a shadowy, gray haired, plaid pajama’d hare slowly strolling across the lawn, occasionally stooping to nestle small objects here and there.

Eos, born at the Dawn of Time, is an Immortal. She will never die. But she has passed away in the memory of men, supplanted by newer superstitions. These new gods will also fade before the implacability of time,  though not before they wreck havoc equal to a thousand Trojan Wars.

Long before that eventuality the Easter Bunny will pass away. Probably this afternoon. Swiftly followed, one suspects, by Santa Claus; logic and reason are too strong.

And that’s a good thing.

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