Because even at my ripe old age, the Easter Bunny still likes me...
Corbeille
It shouldn't be here. Though you're well aware of the day, this is the prevailing thought that has a gun in your palm and dread in your spine. The street before your open door harbors nothing unusual; birds flapping in puddles, cling decorations on windows, Sunday papers on stoops. And this object on yours.
Far from traditional wicker or plastic, the basket is a delicate filigree on unknown material. You could touch it, discover its nature but one hand is occupied with ready weaponry while the other reaches for the phone. Today, baskets require backup. Scanning deeper, you look for trip wires, pressure plates and heat devices from the doorway.
Finding none on cursory glance, you wonder what it says about you that every unexpected arrival is greeted with distrust. Perhaps one of those neighbors you've learn more about by surveillance than conversation is the gifter. But there have always been more enemies than friends and this basket is likely a warning.
A child could have come along, snatching up the present and been another body left at your feet. For that alone you slowly grasp the handle and bring the basket inside, careful not to jolt a bomb into waking. The front door remains open while you gently place it on a side table and keep the gun pointed as though bullets can halt explosions.
Contained within are old world candies and nothing beneath them but crinkle cut paper strips. The purposeful arrangement inside the thin metal frame speaks of warmth not found in adversaries. Then a familiar voice tells you to relax. In a doorway stands the only person besides the Easter Bunny you'd trust not to bring you harm. Now the candy beckons.
And you dive in.
Corbeille - French for basket