“Hello Kelly!” I said cheerfully. A smile formed on my face stretching form ear to ear.
“Hello, Josh,” she replied shortly. She spoke with the annoyance of a little girl who didn’t want to waste time talking to someone twice her age. She looked at me impatiently, tapping her right foot and tilting her head slightly to the left.
“Did you find a lot of Easter eggs?” I asked. It was Saturday morning, the day before Easter, and I was helping with my church’s Easter egg hunt. Kelly was one of the 51 children in attendance.
She held out her basket, as if to say, “Well why don’t you look, moron?”
But before I got the chance to see how many eggs she had found, Kelly dropped her basket and swiftly kicked me in the knee.
“Ow!” I exclaimed, more out of surprise than out of pain, “Why did you do that?”
Kelly giggled maniacally. “Because it was funny,” she said matter-of-factly, “you stupid Easter bunny.”
Immediately any semblance of a smile faded from my face. “What did you call me, Kelly?”
She looked at me stupidly. Her patience had finally run dry. “I said you were a stupid Easter bunny!” With that, she ran off to join the other kids, leaving me standing wide-eyed by myself, my mouth fixed permanently in a gaping position.
Kelly had said something terrible, a phrase uttered in child-like simplicity that assaulted my mind with familiarity and triggered a memory that had long been suppressed in my subconscious persona.
Although my body stood in a field surrounded by children, my mind was elsewhere, focusing on only one unhappy child who was consumed by a burning question and terrorized by an enemy more vile than 1,000 tons of serpent venom.
My mind was in 1992, and once again, I was 7 years old.
Somewhere, war destroyed Bosnia. Mike Tyson began his descent into infamy, being convicted of rape. The Fresh Prince Will Smith raged against the mommy-daddy machine with his funky rhyme “Parents Just Don’t Understand.” Los Angeles was looted by mad crowds angered by the acquittal of the four white men accused of brutally beating Rodney King.
But amidst it all was a little boy full of life and imagination – until those happy emotions were driven into the earth by an unmerciful monster.
I was that little boy, and looking back, I can now see how I was forced to grow up much too early.
The Easter bunny put the proverbial hair on my chest, his egg-thieving ways coercing me into a life full of hardship.
Like most other children, I had a great love for holidays. I liked getting out of school and I enjoyed the various traditions and celebrations that mixed together to create these beloved dates.
But most of all, I liked candy, presents and Easter Eggs.
I remember many Easter Eves at Grandma’s, hard-boiling the eggs and then coloring them, creating beautiful works of eggy art. I laughed as silly Grandpa attempted to follow my “egg-sample” and color his own eggs, usually ending up with some horribly ugly brown-shaded egg.
I remember going to sleep those nights, “egg-citedley” anticipating the candy I would receive the next day in my Easter basket. More than anything, I looked forward to the time I would spend with my family, playing and eating and hugging and loving.
But every Easter Sunday, I awoke and knew immediately that something was wrong. I leapt from bed and ran to the den, where my mother stood, empty basket in hand. “Looks like the Easter bunny came and hid your eggs, Joshua,” she would say. And each time I fell to the floor a bitter pile of sorrowful humanity.
Why Easter Bunny!? Why must you torment me!?
After church, I was forced to “hunt” for my Easter eggs, hidden randomly throughout my front and back yard. The bunny, fool that he was, hid them in the same places every year, and every year, I found my cracked and mutilated masterpieces strung about in lackluster fashions.
It broke my heart to see something I had worked so hard on destroyed in such a manner, but most of all it infuriated me to see my property stolen by a wicked bunny rabbit.
My mother, of course, wouldn’t allow me to keep the eggs in my room, nor would she let me stay up all night and watch over them. So, this travesty continued.
Until 1992, of course. That’s the year everything changed.
The 7-year-old me woke up that Easter to find his precious eggs once again boosted. That was alright, though – 7-year-old me had a plan.
After church, I snuck inside before mom could herd me outside for the grand hunt. I went into the kitchen and opened a drawer under the sink.
(Cue “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” music.) Confidently, I reached into the drawer and retrieved a large butcher knife. Smiling, I tucked the knife into one of my socks.
The hunt went as it always did, mom taking pictures to document the event and I carefully handling the shells of my former creations, teary-eyed and depressed. I kept my jaw set in a smirk, however. I couldn’t let the bunny see how sad he made me feel, for I knew he was watching.
After the hunt, I spoke with my family enough to satisfy their interests and quietly excused myself to go play outside. With any luck, the bunny would still be watching.
My mother had a huge blow-up Easter bunny that had sat jollily in our front yard since before I was born. I hated the thing, because it reminded me of my mortal enemy and all the despair that he had brought upon my life. Noisily, I strode up to the Easter abomination.
(Cue “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” music – again.) “Easter bunny,” I shouted, “I know you’re watching me! And I also know that you’re too cowardly to show yourself!”
There was no reply, as I expected, but I knew he was there in the shadows. A creature of shadows, he is.
“So let this be a warning to you,” I yelled. “If you ever, ehhhhhhever take my eggs again, then I will stay awake one night to catch you and shred you like I’m about to shred this plastic Easter bunny!”
Quickly, I snatched the knife from my sock and made short work of the blow-up buffoon. Laughing evilly, I threw the pieces into the air like confetti and shouted continuously, “Stupid Easter bunny! Stupid bunny!”
Consequently, my mother soon came outside and was horrified. Also, a neighbor saw me and never looked at me the same way again.
But those were small sacrifices to make. The Easter bunny never bothered me again. (Mom told me soon after that that the Easter bunny wasn’t real. I think she just told me that so I would let my guard down. Watch out kids – moms and the Easter bunny are in cahoots!)
Anyhoo, it was about this time, as I was lost in my recollection, that a hand grasped my shoulder. I believe it was my pastor or at least someone in my church.
“Are you okay, Josh?” the mystery voice said softly, “You’re really starting to creep me out.”
As I glanced toward the innocent children, the innocent children that I might have scared the Easter bunny out of tormenting, a single tear ran down my cheek. “Yes, I’ll be OK,” I said absent-mindedly. I started walking toward the setting sun.
“It looks like I’ll be OK, after all.

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