Four seventeen thirty-eight. No, these are not the winning numbers in the lottery; they are the words I heard my mother struggle to speak each time the various staff members at the clinic and in the hospital asked her to confirm who she was. Four seventeen thirty-eight. It was easier than trying to make them understand April, since the page they were looking at had the numeric convention of her date of birth. Four seventeen thirty-eight.

April 17, 1938 was Easter Sunday. My grandfather was said to have called his firstborn his little Easter Bunny; my grandmother refused to let him name the child Bunny and settled on Bonnie instead. I don't remember my grandfather much, except that he had a huge smile, a booming laugh, and that he smoked cigarettes pretty much until his last day on earth in 1967 when he died of lung cancer. But I have no doubt that he loved his little "Bunny" very much, as did my grandmother.

Because Easter is a moving holiday, it never fell on April 17th again while she was alive. Her dream seemed to be to have one of her grandchildren share her birthday with her, and both my sister and I missed the mark by a few days. Heather was born on the 16th, the Monday after Easter in 1990; Quinton was born on April 10, 2009 on Good Friday. It's funny how we seem to circle back to Easter.

Easter Sunday was beautiful this year. Everything is in full bloom, the air is unseasonably warm. I think I am beginning to feel the thaw, finally. There was no family dinner, no gathering of loved ones around our table, just me, Michael, and the dog to enjoy our ham, mashed potatoes, and steamed asparagus. But that was okay, really. I accept that my children have their own lives, families, and friends. I have to admit, though, that I missed Momma's smile, her laugh, her snide comments and sideways compliments that made her who she was.

I'm still grieving, but I believe it's getting better. Yet in my head, I keep hearing the same thing over and over: four seventeen thirty-eight.