My mother was an egg
she hatched from a grandmother I never knew
so fragile, her shell cracked one day as she rested on a city stoop, clutching her chest
not as fragile, my mother beamed easy energy and a strong life force most would envy
she knew that about herself
once, as a child, I caught my mother lying on the sofa
dozing off in the middle of a summer afternoon
which seemed not quite right
so I stopped her from napping by calling out her name as if I could prevent her from ever leaving
she knew she needed more time
and she took it
she still had much to teach her children
her daughters’ birthright, open access to her advice
and there was me with my discerning heart, and big ears, and ever-calculating brain. I was just like her
she lived by unspoken ideals: everything in life has potential for humor
always wear a little makeup when you go out
make yourself presentable
pray
a cake is only good enough if you bake with the best ingredients
don’t skimp on life whether it’s butter or love
and the egg, future sons and daughters,
these are fragile days for mother and child
a shell stronger than you could ever imagine