Easter Eggs   She taught us to love all of it, the whole ritual: boiling the eggs, watching the pills bleed pure color into the little bowls, lowering the eggs with wire loops until the dyes had worked their magic — yes, that’s how beauty is made, we learned: carefully, not fulfilled until concealed and then found. Decades later she died; without a thought of beauty or of joy we fingered through her things, the treasures always meant for later, and found, among report cards and gew- gaws and check stubs, a birth certificate with news that made us laugh, and a sealed pack of portrait photos, slyly smiling back.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2010