I cracked many eggs over the last few days as I got ready to host Easter brunch. Egg shells are a little chalky and sometimes they have tiny bumps on them, like sand worrying the shell just below the surface. If you tried to scratch them off, you could break the egg. Sometimes I feel very much like an egg that way. I carry small irritants just under my skin that are at all times troubling me and just nearly ready to cause me to break. It’s a matter of time.
I enjoy holding eggs in my hands. They fit perfectly. They are cool and usually smooth. I like their chalky feel. I would have done well growing up on a farm and digging in the hen house for eggs. I would have done well growing up anywhere than where I did grow up and wish fervently for a different past. Different memories. I wish different smells troubled me, left me unsettled and unable to sleep. I wish I avoided other memories. I wish different people had loved me or hadn’t loved me. I wish I wasn’t stuck in this god awful package that I’m stuck in, locked in a suffocating life where I can’t get a deep breath, not one.
I enjoy holding eggs. Their weight is pleasant and appropriate. It is proportional to their size and the orb of an egg fits perfectly in the curve of my hand. My hands were made to hold eggs. I wonder if everyone feels this way about their hands and eggs.
It often takes me more than one tap on the counter to crack an egg. Generally my first tap isn’t hard enough and draws a small cobweb of cracks across the face of the egg, an accident scene the size of a thumbprint, but the pieces are held together below the surface. Like windows that are taped before the storm or a mirror that’s taped in case it shatters when it’s taken down. Oh God, how I know how that mirror feels. I am taped up just under the skin. I am a mess of crisscrossing tape, just waiting for someone to bump into me. People are always bumping into me. I am a mess of sharp corners, broken glass that nicks and sometimes tears the skin of others. My corners shame me terribly and leave the metal taste of blood in my mouth.
When the egg finally breaks, the shell shatters and it’s a small shatter. Nothing remarkable. The shell crumbles a bit and the yolk drops whole and heavy and yellow into the bowl. The thin shell belies the heft of the yolk, and I feel a bit proud of the heavy yolk, more substantial than I expect. A small surprise each time. A line of clear gel stretches between the yolk and the shell, a long, shining thread, like spun sugar that breaks from the broken shell and slips into a coil beside the yolk.