A Basket by the Door

I always thought Easter was for the little things - the clink of porcelain mugs on the kitchen counter, the crinkle of plastic grass in baskets, the smell of my mom’s lemon bread toasting in the oven, spread thick with butter and jam. It was for pastel sweaters and garden blooms and little foil-wrapped chocolates melting in your hand.

But that year—2020, when the world felt like it had paused mid-breath—Easter came differently. Quietly. Softly.

And I spent it with my dog, Murphy.

Murphy was a golden retriever with the personality of a sock puppet and the heart of a thousand suns. He was eleven that spring, his muzzle greyed to ash and sugar, his joints a little stiff, but his eyes still lit up like a kid on Christmas whenever someone said the word “walk.”

Or “cheese.” Or “grandma.”

I had moved back home to help my parents when lockdowns began. I worked remotely from the guest room, drank too much tea, and talked more to Murphy than to most people those days. He didn’t mind. In fact, he probably thought it was perfect.

So when Easter came, and we couldn’t go to church or visit family, I decided to do something small. For me. For Murph.

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It started with a basket.

I found an old one in the basement—wicker, a little dusty, with a faded pink ribbon tied to the handle. I cleaned it up, lined it with a dish towel, and filled it with goodies: mini carrot cakes, some dyed eggs, a few dog biscuits shaped like bunnies, and a tiny squeaky lamb toy I found on clearance at the pet store weeks ago. Murphy watched every step with deep concentration, tail thumping whenever a treat clinked into the basket.

“You know this isn’t all for you, right?” I teased.

His tail wagged harder.

Easter morning arrived with golden sunlight and robins chirping like they'd been waiting all winter for this day.. Murphy woke me up by sitting on my feet until I got out of bed, his tail sweeping the floor like a broom.

We took a walk through the neighborhood—just the two of us. The streets were mostly empty, save for chalk drawings on driveways and a few paper bunny cutouts taped to windows. At the corner of Elm and Park, someone had written in looping pastel letters:

“Hope blooms even now.”

Murphy sniffed it approvingly.

Back home, I brewed coffee and plated two slices of lemon bread—one for me, one for Murphy (sans lemon, plus peanut butter). We sat on the back steps, side by side, watching bees drift lazily between the early tulips. He laid his head on my knee, and for a moment, everything else—everything big and scary and uncertain—fell away.

After breakfast, I pulled the basket out and showed it to him.

He perked up immediately, pawing the edge.

“Hold on,” I laughed. “It’s a hunt, remember?”

I’d hidden a few of his biscuits and that squeaky lamb toy in the backyard. Nothing too hard—his nose was still sharp, but his hips didn’t love the chase anymore.

I opened the door. “Go find it, Murph.”

He hesitated, looking at me like, Are you serious? Then, tail wagging like a metronome, he trotted out, sniffing through the grass and flower beds. He found the first biscuit near the birdbath, the second by the garden hose. When he found the lamb tucked under a bush, he grabbed it triumphantly and trotted back to me like he’d just discovered buried treasure.

We sat there for a while—me sipping coffee, him gnawing gently at his toy, the world slowly stretching awake around us.

It was the smallest Easter I’d ever had.

And it was perfect.

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Later that day, I FaceTimed my grandma, who wore bunny ears and held up her cat like he was a prop in a school play. My aunt texted a photo of their Easter table, set for four instead of twelve. And my cousin sent a video of her two-year-old stumbling through their apartment, yelling, “EGGS!” like a pirate in search of loot.

But when I think back to that day, what I remember isn’t the calls or the photos.

It’s Murphy.

It’s how he looked up at me, toy in mouth, eyes shining with nothing but love and joy. No questions. No fear. Just the here and now.

That’s what Easter became for me that year. Not about gatherings or decorations. Not even religion, really—though I still held a quiet reverence for the idea of resurrection, of hope stitched into dark places.

It became about presence.

About the way Murphy leaned into me as we sat in the sun. About how he didn’t need anything more than that moment to be happy.

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Murphy passed away the following spring.

Peacefully. In his sleep. Curled up at the foot of my bed, like he always had.

I still think of him every Easter.

I still make lemon bread. I still fill a little basket—just for the memory. I tuck a squeaky toy in it and leave it by the back door. Sometimes, I sit out on the steps with my coffee and swear I can feel his weight beside me.

And in that quiet, in that light, I find him again.

Every year.

Because Easter was always for the little things.

And Murphy was never little.

He was everything.