I was not a fan of Easter egg hunts when I was a kid—and I mean I was really not a fan. The idea of turning candy—something that brought me nothing but joy—into a competition, where I might lose and therefore get less candy was a nightmare situation. Why add so much stress to something so amazing?

Hell, I would have been much happier just splitting the candy 50-50 with my sister than go to war over it.

(I’m also told we were terrible at finding the eggs, but I standby: that was because I hated it.)

Understanding all this, my mom did away with the hunt.
Instead, each of us got Easter egg trails to follow.

See, while Kelsey and I were asleep, Lil’ Sue would sneak from room to room weaving chocolate all around the house—behind furniture, up on shelves, up and down the stairs—all culminating with a big final chocolate and a gift. I still have a vivid picture of pulling a Kinder Egg and a Green Power Ranger out of a wicker basket in our old kitchen.

Is it kind of embarrassing that we weren’t cut out for a hunt? Maybe. But I swear, waking up to find a bowl with a couple Mini Eggs by the door to my bedroom was almost as good as Christmas.

And something about the love and gentleness of those trails sticks with me as one of my fondest memories of my mom.

Cut to 2014. It’s about seven months since my mom passed and I’m ready(ish) to face my first trail-less Easter. (Yes, I still got one when I was twenty-two.)

And then I woke up on Sunday morning and noticed an egg on the floor near my bedroom door. I can’t remember if I cried, or almost cried, but I was dumbstruck.

Turns out: Kelsey, who knew how much that silly trail meant to a twenty-three-year-old man-child, set out in the middle of the night to weave a trail of chocolate for me to follow.

My memory of that year is a little fuzzy, because that wasn’t the last time it happened. Every year since, no matter where we were—even if we were in a hotel while snowboarding in B.C.— I’ve still woken up to a trail. I’m pretty sure my dad even took a turn laying one out. He bought the wrong kind of chocolate (it’s got to be Mini Eggs) and I’m pretty sure he got tired and just left the half-full bag somewhere along the way—but still: fucking incredible.

I’ve always had a hard time expressing how much those trails meant to me. I think more than anything they made me feel safe. Like: “we get it: you’re a little soft; you’re a little prone to stress in weird ways; but it’s okay, we got you.”

So thanks fam, it meant a lot. And don’t worry: I got this one.