I have grown old enough to no longer recognize myself in the spaces that claimed me for my youngest years. But they keep claiming me.

My godmother still buys me Easter dresses and Easter hats. I obligingly don them, and, on parade, am still shown off in my Easter get-up. My daughter, new to this old tradition, is also dressed and hatted.

My godmother frowns at my lack of sentimentality, which is how she refers to my disinterest in being dressed up.  I frown back, because I fail to see it the same way.

Greek Easter has been marked these last few years by the signs of age on the whole old crew and a deep sense of avoidance about it. We all know that I am no longer the child I was, and that they have aged around me accordingly. But the masquerade of my youth keeps on, in a new dress.

And the newest dressee–my child–makes the curious nostalgia all the more obvious: Our roles are all changing, must change, around her.

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