I kissed my wife for the first time on Easter Sunday, 2016. The romantic tension had been building between us since meeting 2 months before, just after my 25th birthday. We were only together at all that night because her family made her cry at Easter dinner. She was only months into her transition and nobody understood. Nobody really tried to understand, let alone pin down the right pronouns. I didn’t have to ask my parents for help – she was immediately, wholeheartedly welcomed to our humble feast of stuffed peppers and mac and cheese. My grandmother beat us at UNO, twice, over dessert.

Later that night, I brought her along to a childhood friend’s house for an Easter reunion and cocktail. I cuddled her on the couch and kissed her head because it felt right. On the drive home, I kissed her properly with butterflies and knots in my stomach. This was at a time where I felt truly unlovable – broken beyond repair, lost in my young ambitions, ‘too much’ for someone else to deal with. I promised myself I’d break up with her the next day for both our own good.

We got married 7 years later to the very day.

My grandmother, reigning UNO champion of the Bedrosian household, also died on Easter Sunday, 2021. Her 94th birthday had just passed, and the card I’d bought for her was still sitting on my desk. It is very unlike me to send a birthday card late, especially to the woman who instilled in me my deep love of mail. However, she’d been admitted to the hospital before her big day, and my parents gently broke it to me that she probably wasn’t coming home.

I saw my grandmother for the last time over FaceTime. My parents made me promise not to tell her anything was wrong. She had no real idea she was dying, and they wanted to spare her any fear. So, I made painful small talk with a strained smile while she told me “Not to worry, I’ll be home soon.” I discreetly snapped a screenshot because I wanted one last photo of us together. It’s never bothered me that my eyes are glassy, or that there’s an oxygen tube shoved in her nose. I’m just glad I got to see her at all from 3 states away during a pandemic.

That Easter, I felt unprecedented, uncontrolled anger as I tore the birthday card in half. As if it was the card’s fault she was gone. As if it were mine because I never sent it. Later, I broke down in tears at my local Target when I saw all the grandmother cards on display for Mother’s Day. I didn’t go to her funeral for a number of reasons, but the one I’ll share is that I never, ever wanted to know what she looked like dead.

This Easter, I am at home alone with a chore list and a few craft projects to do. My wife, soon to be my ex, is out with her family while I quietly putter around. Next Easter, I will be in a new home in a new state in a new life that I never really wanted or expected, but I will make the most of it just the same. Even if, at times, I resent having to.

I am not a religious person, but I understand this holiday is about rebirth. Transition and new beginnings. For me, it a day steeped in nostalgia and grief, and I’ve seldom expected it to be anything else. However, my father made an excellent point in a text to me this morning:

“As time goes on, you will only remember the things that made you laugh, and (them) being gone will be much less painful.”

And so, with that nugget of wisdom and a small box of gourmet truffles, I’ve decided I’ll be okay today. For the first time in a while, I don’t feel exhausted by the ache of old memories, broken traditions, or enormous changes. I won’t be drinking with my in-laws or kissing my wife or watching Easter Parade with my grandmother on the couch beside me. But, I will be living. I’m pretty grateful for that.

As dear ol’ dad likes to say, “Happy Oyster” to you, to me, and to whatever comes after all this.