Easter Sunday Morning, April 5, 2026: Anne’s Resurrection Through Suffering

Easter Sunday Morning, April 5, 2026: Anne’s Resurrection Through Suffering

Easter Sunday morning, pale light catches the edge of Anne’s brow;

the world opens quietly, as she lies in the hush of suffering.

The slow erosion of memory, cells dividing and retreating,

becomes a kind of crucifixion, days measured in pills and prayers.

She listens to the silence, and I wonder

if the resurrection is not a single miracle

but the gentle rising of stories, stitched in the breath of those who love her.

Her laughter, once bright as sun through stained glass,

now flickers, fragile, yet persists in poetry,

in the halting words I offer to the wind.

Easter’s promise is not only in the tomb unsealed,

but in the way her name unfolds in memory,

recalled in fragments over coffee, in the soft telling of friends.

Resurrection is what we build from her suffering:

a mosaic of recollection, finite yet luminous,

where Anne rises again, and again, and again,

whenever we speak her into the world anew.

If you feel like keeping track of Anne’s cancer journey, I’m chronicling it in prose and poetry here: