They are stories that live on the shell. Since childhood, I remember sitting next to my mother and grandmother, holding an egg wrapped in a husk in my hands. We cooked them with herbs, beets, tea — whoever had what.
Sometimes they simply painted it in one color — red, yellow, blue. And sometimes they drew patterns with wax. My mother had a special pen that smelled of a hot candle. I was afraid to do something wrong, but my mother said: “The main thing is not to be perfect, the main thing is to do it with love.”
In the Poltava region, Easter eggs are like prayers. They are kept, given as gifts, and put in a basket. I still have some from my childhood - they're a little faded, but they're alive.
Coloring Easter eggs is a time for silence and thoughtfulness. It's a family moment when everyone is together, without phones. And the soul rejoices because something beautiful is being born.