Family Easter Traditions - Essay Example

Eggs stuffed with goodies, eggs that were goodies in themselves, made of chocolate or caramel, slipped into colorful paper pouches that would rustle under the sheets.
It was at this point I remembered about lunch the next day, and the eggs I was supposed to have hidden around our tiny apartment before nightfall. I found myself walking into the Walt Whitman Mall, though I doubt many people realize it is called by that name. Since the first time I had read the work of the man to whom every hour of light and dark was a miracle,  I had fallen in love with him. Life indeed is full of miracles. It could come to you, as it did to me this morning, with an offer to write on a magazine, or it could emerge out of a bottle of Dior that would give your skin a lasting glow, which its label promises with great authority at Sephora's open counters; that brim with lipsticks and fragrances, eyeshadow and mascara, or revitalizing lotions. I gazed at them, and even tried on a few scents just for the heck of it, dreaming about how my articles and by-lines would look in magazine print, as the painted salesgirl obligingly kept spraying little strips of paper for me to sniff, shoving the coffee pods in between that made me forget the last fragrance I had breathed in.

I wandered out to the bookshop across, wondering if they do not carry any Easter eggs, but the ones they did have were too plastic or too ornate, so I thought of browsing a few magazines to get a better idea of Easter eggs in vogue, and where best to get them. Of course, I drifted towards the cookery section where I was sure of recipes for candy in the shape of Easter eggs. The girl next to me in overdone casual chic and a tad too much make-up stood poring over a magazine, mumbling to herself, and when I passed by her I couldn't help gazing over her hunched shoulders. It was a quiz, “Is he the man for you?”, and I could tell she was seriously worried as she whipped out her neon-pink cellphone and began whispering furiously into it.

The carpeting at the bookstore made me drag my feet a little, and I longed to put my sling bag down and sit down someplace for a cuppa. The girl at the coffee shop beamed at me the same smile she had put up for those ahead, and I settled down on a chair next to an old man with a lot on his mind, or at the very least, on his laptop. Between loud slurps on his plastic glass, where he presumably scalded his tongue each time, shook his head, and went ahead for another reckless gulp, he scribbled on a pad beside him and played around with his Blackberry. Maybe he was waiting for a wire transfer, drumming impatiently on the table, and I thought of Runaway Jury, and how I was taken with Gene Hackman, despite being the villain of the piece, or somehow because of it. The old man I sat next to was portly and appeared scatty. I soon lost all thoughts of Hackman, and let my gaze roam around in search of a possible candy shop.

Having detected none by the time I had dragged the mocha to the last sip, I decided maybe the little shops across the road that I had spotted on my way here could be a likely source of holiday eggs. I loitered out, the edgy separates at the A/X Exchange on the way drawing my eye. I bought a staple scarf in a discreetly embroidered black and found that I had only enough change for the ride back home.

 I had to get the eggs later in the evening, I realized with much relief and started walking out of the mall while trying to figure out a story for the others. I needed something that would neatly explain the expensive scarf, the reason why I was late, and the missing eggs, without either stretching the truth too far or having to put up with laughing accusations. I had found the afternoon a delightful waste of time and would not mind doing it again. Read More