April is such a moody month. One day the sun shines brightly, and the other day rain pours. In April we celebrate my brother Brett’s birthday. In April we also commemorate his death. Easter is almost always in April, and like the month it is a time of both joy and sorrow.
I have very happy childhood Easter memories. Holy Thursday was particularly enjoyable as mum always made a traditional Last Supper meal of lamb, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs. However, the highlight of the evening was after Mass but before dinner when dad would re-enact the Gospel. To my brothers’ and my delight, and mum’s exasperation, he would emerge from the bedroom donned in a towel around his waist and leather sandals to wash our feet. He would also use this opportunity to either commend us on the state of our feet or tell us our toenails needed clipping.
As an adult most of my Easters have been spent abroad. In the last 12 years I have only had one Easter in Trinidad. Although the week is filled with nostalgia, I still try to keep the traditions alive. I cook the Last Supper, Hasani washes our feet, we read the Passion on Good Friday, and eat hot cross buns. However, I must confess I have substituted the long Glorious Saturday evening Mass with the much shorter Easter Sunday morning one.
It is always a pleasant surprise when Spring visits us for Easter. We had really high hopes this year as there were a few days of unseasonable sunshine and warmth for London. But the grey clouds, single digit temperatures and “gentle breeze” (British weather reporters’ code for cold wind) have descended upon us.
For such a pretty word, April is a heavy month for me. Amidst the new bright green buds and flowers that seemingly spring up overnight, there is always the shadow of Brett’s death. The first drop of sweat with higher temperatures reminds me of a single bead of sweat trickling down my back that day in the cemetery. Amidst the birds chirping I still hear the shovel hitting the dirt and the dirt hitting the wooden coffin. Amidst the happy faces of children running in the park I still see the horror on my youngest niece’s face when she looked in her dad’s coffin and saw death for the first time. Every April I live my own night in the garden of Gethsemane.
Though Brett’s death was very painful, his funeral was very peaceful. I now understand the meaning of closure. Brett never slept much; he was always on the go. Up late partying and liming, awake early working out. Always rushing and lamenting that his youth was slipping away. As though he knew his time on earth was limited, he siezed every moment. At his funeral, it was like we were all tucking him into bed and telling him to have a good night’s rest.
April is both death and new life. It is grey skies and showers that make way for warmer, prettier days ahead. On Holy week we remember Jesus’ Last Supper, the Agony in the Garden, the Scourging at the Pillar, the Crowning with Thorns, the Carrying of the Cross, the Crucifixion and Death of Jesus. On Easter Sunday though, we celebrate The Resurrection. Brett, I miss you dearly and I wish I had just one more day with you. I look forward to seeing you again. Until then, sleep well and may your soul rest in peace. I love you.
