• The saturnine clouds floated above, heavy and dark with rain. A cool breeze blew every now and then, winter’s last efforts to chill the land. I watched dreamily as a lone robin sat and sang of spring in a leafless tree. Her song seemed to intertwine with the wind, creating a melody of life and death, old and new, beginning and end. The song floated through the cemetery, swirling around each weather-worn tomb stone.
    A sharp laugh tore me from my thoughts. Around me small children were taking part in light badinage, all of them eager for the day’s events to commence. It was Easter, and the annual Easter egg hunt in Rose Hill Cemetery was about to begin. Scattered about the graveyard were plastic Easter eggs, their pastel hues seemingly out of place in this dreary setting. It does seem strange, an Easter egg hunt in a cemetery, but it has been going on in this small town long enough for people to stop questioning it.
    “Get ready!” an adult said as she took her place in front of the group. The youngest children were lined up at the front, while the older children were behind them. My best friend Halley and I were in the back.
    “Go!” the woman shouted. Suddenly everything was in motion. I suppressed a scowl as some children ran into Halley without notice
    “It’s okay, just go!” she told me in a soft, hollow voice. With a nod, we were off. I hurried to throw the eggs into my basket, Halley following close behind. The other children were scrambling in the middle of the cemetery, but I knew that the eggs with the best prizes were hidden in the back corner. Halley and I raced to the corner, giggling lightly the whole way. I spotted the closest egg; it was perched precariously on a smooth grave stone. Quickly, I reached for it. Then the words engraved on the stone hit me:

    Halley S. Allan
    A loving daughter, sister and friend.
    1998-2007


    I turned on a dime, but Halley was gone. All I saw were children running to their parents, leaving the pastel treasures behind, as it began to rain.