This Eve of Easter, you are 17,
No more Easter bunnies, no more eggs of color or eyes of wonder,
No more jellybeans, not for a man of 17.
Childhood memories soon fade in trade for the man God has made,
A gentle reminder of when the years were kinder,
But I don’t have to forget, not now, not yet…
The mornings you rolled out of bed and placed bunny ears on your head,
You searched the house left and right, for the Easter eggs we painted bright,
Your mother, me, you, and that little black dog too,
Confetti on the floor and Easter baskets galore,
That holiday in the spring and the happiness it would bring,
Always near and dear to my heart.
Please don’t ever trade all the memories we made.
I hope you know what I mean, my young man of 17.
