The Egg Shell

About the Author

Hosing down the patio,

I find a small egg shell

cracked open and look up

to an empty nest, thinning

at the edges, its purpose

fulfilled.

But I remember how for weeks

she sat unmoved, and I'd keep

my distance, afraid of disturbing

such stillness. I forbade the gardener

from entering this sacred place.

Only once, seeing my mother

in bed, staring up, lips moving

as if in communion did I also

observe such silence. I'd wait

in the other room for her to call me.

Not a religious woman, my mother

in her last days listened to sisters and

brothers, "Ma was here," she'd say,

making circles with her finger

to describe the glow. At such moments,

my mother was doing what she must, too,

before leaving.

It's been a month

since the two little ones discovered

their wings. I'd like to know

where they go after the shell falls away.

Does space open to great space?

Or does home become another place,

close but unseen?

It's this human thing to look for signs.

Far better I go on living this life.

Still, I watch for their return,

the quiet flutterings.

from Seeing Through Symbols

A Chrysalis Reader

Volume 5, 1998