My boys like eggs for breakfast.
So every morning,
in the cheerless light of
not-quite-day,
I crack two eggs into a bowl
and whisk them with a fork until
the whites
and yolks
have all become a mottled yellow soup
that I can use to cook
the little omelets that they love.
There can be such a difference in the shells.
Some eggs have shells of rock,
craggy-coated things
that fight against the breaking.
My normal rappings
only leave them dented,
crazed but whole,
and I must hammer them
into the lip
before they shatter.
Some are paper-thin,
and feel as if they might give way
beneath the lightest touch.
Like sunlit wings of some
too-fragile moth,
they almost tear instead of crack.
It is an easy thing
to make them weep
their heart into the world.
They look alike,
the hard shells and the soft,
and it is only in the testing
that you know.
My boys like eggs.
So every morning,
in the rising light,
I make them little omelets
and we break our fast in
slow and quiet
talk about their lives.
It does not last.
The clock slips by us while we sit
and all-too soon it’s
time for
coats and socks and teeth and hurry;
“Did you remember that
permission form?”
until they’re gone
into the hustle of the world,
leaving me behind to hope
that I have done enough,
and that, at least today,
their shells are
strong.
