As Easter approaches, I’m reminded of one of my mother’s most enduring gifts. Like most of her generation, she handed down to her grandchildren silver flatware, some furniture that would have impressed few on the Antiques Roadshow, and hug-infused unconditional love. Late in life, she took up ceramics, a soothing, stress-free hobby that produced Easter rabbits for each of my children. Each displays the grandchild’s name in her still-respectable print. Each contained a receptacle for an egg. The children treasured these long-eared legacies as a symbol of the season and as an embodiment of their grandmother’s affection for them. While the children are now grown and scattered, I hold on to all four ceramics, and I recently discovered in the nest of one a Cadbury chocolate egg, still encased in colorful foil. I did some quick math and concluded the egg must be at least fifteen years old. Mother has been gone thirteen years, and the child whose egg it was is now thirty-four. We hold tightly to the traditions of the seasons to hold tightly to those we love and remember.