It's Still Life

Her Eggs

Mum had a Victorian demeanour, posture as if stitched into a corset. Very few emotions she’d let slip, except boredom tightening her face. I remember her studying the back porch steps. She’d painted them shiny parrot green, the July sun scorched her neck, and bubbled the paint like the crispy edges of a fried egg. It was the egg thing that irked her the most. For Mum, anything eggy was diabolical. She’d stand over a pot of boiling water, watching eggs bounce toward hard-cooked, waiting for them to crack and spew their innards under the stare of her watchful eye. Mum hated eggs. Understandable, since her eggs oozed their whites all over the plate like a wet sponge.

Frost is in the air
Hot cocoa in heavy mugs
Time squeaks underfoot

©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter. for GoDogGoCafe, Haibun Wednesday. Image by Andrea Kowch “Apple of My Eye”.