Resurrection

I remember Easter when I was a kid. Smelly lilies almost overwhelming me in church, long processions, the empty tomb recreated with, I don't know, wire and paper mache. After the doom and gloom of Good Friday and the Stations of the Cross -which I rather liked, but was tiring- Easter was a relief. I remember also the laden table: kielbasa, the huge ham, the festive pastel eggs that I'd colored the day before, all laid out on a sparkling white tablecloth for the priest to bless with his holy water microphone (that's what it looked like). My mom running anxiously to the picture window every minute to see whether the priest's big black Lincoln had pulled in the driveway.
The priest no longer comes to bless the food. I guess we are now trusted to bless it with our own love and presence. Some things are the same, though. We sit down at the table at noon on the dot, rush through our Easter meal, and are done by 12:30. My mother, my aunts, my cousins eating pretty sparsely of all the abundance. This year we drank a nice Prosecco with our meal, though (my influence, I'm afraid. I've had enough Martini & Rossi at holidays to last a lifetime). Then the dishes were done, and everyone left, and I packed up to head to Sparky's. He's sick with flu, first time in twenty years he says, so I brought ham and green beans and sweet potatoes for yet another Easter feast. When I arrived in the hilltowns, still burdened with three feet of snow on the ground, I unloaded the dogs and took them for a pee on the side of the house, where I saw something odd. A porcupine tail, disembodied and lying atop the snow, ripped right off the porcupine. I called the dogs off, not wanting to spend the evening pulling quills or spending millions of dollars for an emergency visit to the vet. Once the dogs were safely stashed in the house, I went out to deal with the tail. Which was beautiful, really, a four inch chunk of black fur covered with shining white quills. And I wondered. Worms can grow themselves back after being chopped in half, salamanders can grow tails after the originals had been lost. What about porcupines? Was there somewhere a porcupine lumbering through the sparkling woods, tailless but unphased, growing a new one, resurrecting a part of itself as it went?
I feel this Spring that part of me has been resurrected in the dark winter nights, the loving, feeling part, slowly growing back after having been chopped at. It is rising with the embryonic crocuses and daffodils under the snow.
So today, write/draw your own Resurrection, actual or representational. I drew the porcupine tail, for instance. What's your porcupine tail, your empty tomb, your crocuses rising from the snow?