Riverdale Road

Standard

 

She held the egg,

a single uncooked egg

as others bustled,

became busy

with boxes and

bubble wrap.

Sister, niece, daughters:

a gossipy gathering,

a big day.

 

I played two ball

against the wall

my mum had used

as a girl.

Why doesn’t she throw it away?

I thought.

Throw the egg away.

 

It hadn’t really

occurred to me

that buses to Ashby,

fresh garden mint

with roasted lamb,

sleeping belly up

on sheepskin rug

and dusty, red

electric heat

were today

to be packed away

beside tea towels

and other memories.

 

I feel now her hand,

holding that egg

and in my dreams,

I wrap it for her,

carefully.

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