I reached in and there it was, exactly where it should be, exactly as I expected, except it’s not a daily occurrence, no, I’m not lucky enough for that. But still there it was, just sitting there, left there, waiting for me to come by and collect it.
I picked it up. Between my fingers, in the palm of my hand, it was perfect, truly perfect, no markings, no scrapings of dirt. So warm, so recent, recently left for me to find – the best of presents.
I went to return to the backdoor but stopped. I stood motionless in the middle of my handkerchief-sized yard, Cat the Ripper catching the mid-morning sun by lying on his side in the veggie-patch mulch (a bed just for him, he thinks), sparrows chirping industriously in the bush of the potato vine on top of the pine-log pergola as if they had picks in their beaks and mining the sky – clink clink clink. But I stopped only because of what I held in my hand.
I couldn’t believe it, I was incredulous. And it really was the perfection that got me. The creamy colour, only a hint of coffee in the hue. And simple – the simplest of the simple. And smooth! Did I know of anything smoother? Dry glass perhaps, but this was microscopically pitted. So it was like bone, the thinnest of bone, a bony membrane. I could crush it. A slow, concerted turning in of my fingers and palm and it would be gone, an oozing gooey mess remaining, the sharp shell bits digging into my skin.
I got going again – I had work to do, words to write, stories to create – but at the back-step I stopped for a third time. Could there be anything more beautiful than this simple thing, so whole, wanting to be nothing more than this? Wouldn’t that be good – to be as whole as this and believe it, understand it, know it.
Inside the house at last I washed it in the laundry sink, but – oh of course – my efforts made it no more perfect. As I went into the kitchen I remembered some words that Lou Reed used to sing: ‘It’s such a perfect day/I’m glad I spent it with you’. It’s true: how glad I was to be in the company of that day’s backyard-chicken egg. Because I’m not perfect, and never will be.
(First published as ‘Joy in the little things’ in Panorama, The Canberra Times, 17 November 2012.)
5 comments
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November 17, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Nov
Gabrielle Bryden
a perfect gem of a story – I have thought the same thing many times as I collect the sometimes eggs – perfection – love the way they are warm in the hand – always apologise to my chooks for stealing their hard work and thank them 😉 sometimes give them an extra treat (a cherry tomato or slice of cucumber) as payment.
November 18, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Nov
Nigel Featherstone
Thanks very much, Gabe. Yes I, too, feel a bit bad whenever I pinch an egg, though the coop I have allows me to do it covertly through a hatch-door at the back. No doubt the girls still notice. And don’t they they love a cherry tomato or a slice of cucumber! It’s as though they’re eating chocolate cake, or something dipped in booze.
November 20, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Nov
whisperinggums
Sorry Nigel … I read this a few days ago on my ipad but commenting via that usually gets me into trouble so I left it, meaning to come back faster than I have. Love this story. Eggs are beautiful things … and you’ve captured the combination of beauty and fragility … that sense of fragility made me think how easy it is for us to destroy things we love if we don’t mind ourselves.
November 20, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Nov
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Sue, many thanks for your kind thoughts. And this is wonderful: ‘that sense of fragility made me think how easy it is for us to destroy things we love if we don’t mind ourselves’. You’ve said in 23 words what I took 400 words to say. Yes, beauty and fragility.
November 20, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Nov
whisperinggums
Yes, and that’s why you’re a writer and I’m a blogger!