Easter Sunday Sadness

As the mournful music from the Pearl Harbor soundtrack washed over my senses, I reflected how unlucky I was not to have my father around me today, Easter Sunday.

I remember distinctly his preparation of the traditional Maltese figolla, preparing it in my favourite shape, that of an aeroplane, and then decorating it with chocolate and trimmings to make it look as real as possible.

I look back on all the times we used to go around the island, looking around the various churches resplendent with all the trappings of sorrow and resurrection, the two intertwined in our beliefs.

And then we used to celebrate Easter Sunday at our home town of Vittoriosa, running happily with the risen Christ by our side, not returning home until it was way past dinnertime and throats hoarse with all our shouting of joy.

And as I remembered these happy times, I could not resist looking through an ancient suitcase, replete with old and faded photographs of a time gone by.

And I weep.

I weep for the soul and the love of a man struck down in his prime.

I weep for all the children of the world who treat their parents as if they were nothing but a hindrance to their hustling and bustling lives.

In my tears I can feel his presence next to me, comforting me with the thought that eventually, like the risen Lord, we will meet once again sometime.

Yes, we will meet…and talk about life, love and family, and all the happenings we have gone through all the years we have been apart.

And I promise myself to continue loving my children just as he loved me in his day.

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