BROKEN EGGS
I still remember, many years ago,
walking to the kitchen, and seeing
my mom holding an egg
carefully in the palm of her hand,
as if it was a delicate diamond.
Slowly she walked towards the stove,
struggling not to drop the precious jewel,
however from her fingers the egg slipped,
breaking against the hard tile floor.
Her face contorted in pain,
as if the pieces of the cracked shell
were connected to her own heart.
She sunk, on her knees, to the floor
a stream of tears rolling down her face,
muffled sobs escaped her opened lips.
As panic takes over,
I run to my mom struggling to comfort her,
trying to comprehend.
“It shouldn’t have fallen apart—
it can’t fall apart—
why would I let us fall apart?”
Her voice trembling, she whispers
the painful words that echo through the house.
The missing car from the driveway,
the empty drawers that once belonged to her husband,
make it clear, the egg isn’t the cause of her broken heart.