For the umpteenth time she bellowed do not
swing those eggs! At eight a bag of precious
freight seemed to somehow only slow me down
for half a minute. I’d stop that bag mid
flight; control it like a drone; hover it
like dragonfly on pond. Then something
snapped and once again it swung like on
a catapult controlled by tiny men.
My angry mum exasperated much
would state some rhetoric like how many
times do you have to be told? and I would
not have liked to be the one to count. Yet
to this day I catch myself mid-swing. My
mother’s voice still resonates within the
shells of one full box of precious dozen
eggs. For years I’ve longed to still defy
her words and swing them high with wild release.
But in the end, I could not bring myself
to peer inside that box and see one cracked;
and know that she was right; and know that life
is short; and find that one fine line can cause
the darkness to seep in and lose the light.