Sandra Graham is a mum to three children. She loves reading, foreign films and enjoys writing poetry and short stories. In 2003, Sandra’s poem, ‘Roamin’ won third prize in the Adult Poetry section of the North Lanarkshire Writer of the Year Awards. She is also a budding cook, and her delicious recipe for ‘Sandra’s Blow-Your-Arse-Off Stew’ can be found – HERE

As I child I was terrified of Easter. The thought of Jesus nailed to the cross horrified me. I never had the words as a child to fully describe my trepidation at the onset of Easter. Perhaps now I can describe how I felt.

My mother dragged me to the dawn service on Sunday Morning at 6 am, still sleepy eyed, hungry and vulnerable. This was according to my mother to emphasis the importance of this man's suffering - who gave his life for all humanity.

‘I don’t want to go in, please,’ I said in a little voice.

‘You have to. God loves you,’ my mother answered her voice full of sure and certain faith.

As I entered the long lingering tones of the organ engulfed me causing my very soul to tremble. There was a large cross, made out of palms resting on the altar steps. Each piece intertwined like the dogma that infiltrates young minds. My mother listened to the service intently as I shrivelled smaller and smaller into the wooden slippy pew, sliding along from side to side nervously.

I could almost taste the mustiness of the hymn book pages on my tongue. I tried to bury my face in my mother's fake fur coat and all I achieved was a build up of static electricity that caused my short razor cut hair to stand on end. I twisted my linen hankie round and round till the initial in the corner disappeared. A red S seemed somewhat sinister and I didn’t want to look at its scarlet stitching contaminating my white Irish linen square.

I felt overpowered by the words of worship:-

Nails - I could hear the clank of the hammer as it made contact and the crack of bone and sinew as they were driven home.

Thorns - the spiky fingers breaking the tender skin of the saviour; the blood red stream, rolling over his eyes.

Pain - unimaginable pain. Would it be my pain if I sinned? Would I feel it in the damnation of hell?

Death - the worst word. It made that empty feeling in my stomach, that took ages to leave.

It lingered like virus, unwelcome and uninvited.

At last it was the Benediction; the Minister standing, arms out, blessing us all as I swallowed the hard lump of relief that was at the back of my throat.

Home was chocolate eggs, lots of them, stored away in the glass shelves of the wooden display cabinet in-between the china tea set and the holiday souvenirs. But before I could enjoy them there was one more ritual to perform. Take a tea-stained egg from the kitchen table out in to the garden and roll it down the grassy mound. This was to represent the stone rolling away. As it rolled, it cracked and released the pungent smell it held within. But the disturbing images still remained.

At last I could get my fat chubby hands on my chocolate eggs, break off the fondant flowers and crack it open. Hidden inside the blue tissue paper were real full size Milk Tray chocolates, Turkish Delight and Hazelnut Swirl.

It was an early dinner 3 pm for the statutory steak pie. My father had dipped the stew the night before as it bubbled in the pot and now the cubes of beef had white additions stuck to the side of them. I shovelled it in as I greedily eyed the bowls of yellow custard cooling on the kitchen window sill. Still my mind was in turmoil I kept thinking someone was behind me, watching my every move.

Our evening activity was singing hymns while my father accompanied us on the mouth organ as we waited for Songs of Praise coming on the television.

Bed time came. I couldn’t stall it any longer. I tried the usual tactics - glass of water, feeling sick and needing the toilet but eventually I ran out of excuses. I lay in my white painted bed that had originally been brass and watched the shadows form mysterious shapes on the rose wallpaper. I fought off closing my eyes as long as possible, fearing the dream state images of Christ impaled on the cross.

Sleep did come and as I dreaded the whole story was re-enacted. The donkey, grey and willing to carry the Saviour; the palms strewn before him; the Last Supper; Judas; the rattling of the coins; the Garden of Gesthsemane; the head bent; the empty pleading eyes, searching for an answer…

I woke early. Sweat had moistened my hairline and I trembled like a frightened rabbit. At last it was over, gone till next year.

I can remember it clearly even today. The fear of Easter has carried through into adulthood and has led me to question the validity of Christian teaching. Does it need to be based on fear? Is this the foundation for obedience? Yes Jesus loves me, but he frightens me too.

When I woke up, the CD was on repeat; the song playing over and over; the words stung my heart:

‘I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel.....’

It might not have been the Chelsea Hotel but it was our hotel. We had a magical time - a sexual dalliance to go down in myth and legend.

I closed my eyes and brought your face to mind. I recalled the day we spent in bed with a box of Mary Quant crayons, decorating our bodies with fake tattoos. I drew a sun on your bum and when we passed on the stairs, only we two knew it was there. The time we covered each other in love bites. I gave you one on your forehead. You had to cover it with a sticking plaster to go to work. The night we picnicked on Cornish Wafers and Primula cheese spread and slept on the crumbs till morning. Your white shiny feet, they fascinated me. So soft smooth and delicate. Why do men have such tender feet?

Now I remember the day we wore all our clothes inside out like two revolutionaries, fighting for the cause of individuality. The hours spent wrapped in a candlewick bedspread discussing how we would feed Africa and escape reality.

The night you ate Thumper (my rabbit’s) dropping, thinking it was the bit of hash you lost the night before. The books we read: ‘Jonathon Livingston Seagull,’ ‘Lord of the Rings’ and ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.’ I would write poetry and you would sing Bob Dylan's Wedding song out of tune.

The night we went skinny dipping in the freezing cold loch and drank a bottle of brandy huddled round a one bar fire. The old tub in the bathroom and the baths we shared together.

The fits of hysterical laughter as we worked out the best position. You washing my back and combing my hair; me running my finger down the length of your spine till you shivered.

The times we painted everything black or made curtains out of newspaper strips stapled together.

All this thinking has made me tired.

The song comes to an end again,

the last line so appropriate: ‘.............that’s all. I don’t even think of you that often.’ I reach out, switch off the hi-fi and stumble towards the shower.

SANDRA’S SWEET THINGS:

1. My family - although I think my kids want to divorce me

2. My friends - they are all as mental as me

3. Leonard Cohen - oh that voice, baby!

4. Bookshops - I adore the smell

5. Travelling - the more isolated the better

SANDRA’S SHITE THINGS:

1. Rainmates - middle age here I come

2. Dentures - they make me boak

3. Cruelty to animals - first step to being cruel to humans

4. Chic Lit books - snore, bloody, snore

5. Patronising people - okay now darling?

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