The house always smelled different in the days leading up to Easter—like Fresh Baked Bread, Hot Cross Buns.

Lent had already stretched on for what felt like years.

But Sundays were different. Sundays meant Mass.

The church during Lent felt quieter, heavier somehow. The purple cloth draped over everything made it seem like even the statues were holding their breath. I never quite understood all of it—the readings, the rituals—but I understood the seriousness. The way my father’s voice dropped when he whispered responses. The way my mother closed her eyes during prayer, as if she were somewhere else entirely.

And then there was Holy Week.

Everything intensified. We went to church more often, sat longer, stood and knelt until my legs went numb. On Good Friday, the silence felt enormous. No music, no bells—just the sound of shoes against tile and the occasional cough echoing too loudly. I remember thinking it was strange, this mourning for something that had happened so long ago. But it felt real to the adults, and so it became real to me.

Then, finally, Easter morning.

I would wake up earlier than usual, and for a moment I’d forget everything—Lent, sacrifice, solemn hymns. I’d just be a kid again, running to the living room to see what had appeared overnight.

Chocolate I could finally eat. Bright wrappers, sugar, abundance. It felt like a small resurrection of its own.

Later, we’d go to church again, but everything had changed. The purple was gone, replaced by white and gold. Flowers everywhere. Music—loud, triumphant, almost startling after weeks of restraint. People smiled more. Even the priest seemed lighter, like he’d been waiting for this moment too.

“He is risen,” someone would say.

“He is risen indeed,” came the reply.

I didn’t fully understand it, not really.  Not the weight of it. But I understood the feeling—the shift from quiet to joy, from waiting to celebration. The way something held back had finally been released.

That afternoon, back home, the house smelled different again. Ham and Mutton in the oven, sugar in the air, laughter bouncing off the walls.

This is what Easter felt like as a child: a long wait, a quiet mystery, and then, suddenly, light.