9:54 a.m. - 2010-11-08
Hard Boiled Egg
Hard boiled egg with strips of toast. That's what it was called. My mother would place a perfectly boiled egg, cap removed, on a special white glass pedestal. It sat like a majestic yellow sun. Even strips of white toast, not too dark and not too light, formed symmetrical rays on the plate. She served it as to a little queen, with pomp and humility all at once. How am I going to miss my mother if I don't hold onto these fragments? I musn't let them slip into the cracks of time. I must cling to every strip, remembering its texture, its color, its taste, in meticulous detail. I am curator of the museum of my mother. Each gem is precious, dimestore or otherwise. I remember her favorite joke, but what was her favorite color? I realize with stark certainty that I will never know.
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