One Easter morning, I was OVERJOYED to see an enormous chocolate bunny perched jauntily atop the cellophane grass of MY basket. My mouth watered, but I knew it was off-limits until after Church. I couldn’t overcome the wave of urgency carrying me along. Nor could I silence the tiny devil on my shoulder begging for Just. One. Taste.
After doing some light recon, I determined it would be a simple task to gently unwrap the foil, take a nibble, then wrap it back up. So focused was I on the task at hand, I failed to notice the lack of heft one would expect from the traditionally substantial confection. As I gently scraped my teeth against the ear, my hands tightened ever so slightly, and the hapless lapin crumbled in my grip.
I was stupefied. A hollow chocolate bunny??? How was this possible??? This ranked right up there with biting into a chocolate chip cookie and realizing it was actually oatmeal raisin. I was shocked and disillusioned. The bunny had failed me. It was an impostor. I couldn’t wrap my 6-year old head around it. Things were never the same after that.
As time has passed, I’ve realized The Bunny and I are kindred spirits. My shiny foil is just as colorful. I can fill out the same space in the basket. On the surface, everything appears solid; some days, it’s actually true. Those hollow days, though? They’re a killer. One little squeeze and everything crumbles.
On hollow days, you shrink into the basket fearing someone will unwrap you; at the end of the day you wish someone had tried. You lie in the bottom of the basket in pieces, with only plastic grass and black jellybeans for company. You try to play the game, all the while realizing you don’t know the rules. You fail the test you didn’t know you were taking. You miss the boat. You forget your lunch money. You realize the dog ate your homework.
You hope, at the end of the day, that tomorrow will not be another hollow day.