Tony sat at his dining room table with seven glasses of colored vinegar in front of him: Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Purple and Pink. Each glass held a spoon, and a few also contained a small, hexagonal, wire contraption. Two dozen white, hard-boiled eggs rested in a paper carton at the center of the table, waiting for little hands to decorate them.
Annabelle and Brock, Tony's two kids, also sat at the table, expectant smiles taking over their faces. Annabelle was seven; Brock five, and they loved to color Easter Eggs. Tony knew that they couldn't wait to get started, but he delayed for just a moment. He was drinking in the experience, as he did every birthday and holiday and trip to the park. He took a mental picture of his two kids waiting in excited anticipation, and he tried to remember what it felt like to be so full of wonder and joy.
There was an old Christmas movie they liked to watch every year that had a poignant quote. It said, “most grown ups can’t believe in magic. It just..sort of grows out of them.” It was true, and it had grown out of Tony. Not that he'd ever really believed in magic. He hadn't ever believed in the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy or God, for that matter, not really. He'd believed in Santa for a while, but was younger than most when he stopped. Still, despite his lack of true belief in the characters, or in real magic, he had, as much as every other child, felt the “magic" feeling of joy and excitement and giddy happiness associated with it all. It had been wonderful, but, as the movie said, as he grew up it grew out of him. He no longer cared about dying eggs to be hidden by a rabbit and subsequently searched for on Easter morning. Christmas brought curiosity more than wonder and overshadowed even that with stress and business. The hope and peace and security that an all loving God lavished on people, well, that would be nice, but it didn't exist, at least not for him or anyone he knew. Everyone, as they grew up, grew out of magic and wonder. Life became less an adventure and more a monotony.
Kids though, kids could still feel, and if there was anything in the world that could make Tony believe again, to feel again, it was his kids. When Annabelle was born a spark ignited in his soul, and again when Brock was born. That spark sometimes simmered deep down, almost cold, and sometimes roared into a flame, but most often it simply glowed, providing a soft, but constant warmth and light to his life. There was, indeed, something magical about the belief of children, about children themselves. Maybe the simple fact that they believed, with such wonder and sincerity, helped Tony remember how to believe, or maybe, it wasn't that children believed in magic, but that they were magic. Maybe they were wonder and mystery. Maybe they were excitement and joy. Maybe they were truth and belief. Maybe it wasn't the the ability to believe that grew out of grown ups. Maybe it was the magic itself. Maybe, in order to believe in magic and experience wonder and joy you needed to become like a child again.
Regardless, in this moment, Tony could feel the magic emanating from his children's smiles. He embraced it. He drank it in.
“Dad! Are you ready? Can we start?"
“You bet! Let's dye some eggs."
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