Tuesday, January 14, 2014
A White Egg
She tapped on the driver's side window while traffic weaved around her. I was searching for change to feed the meter. Her gray hair tangled, limp and blue eyes bright. In her hand was an egg carton. She motioned for me to roll down the window. As the window disappeared into the door, her face drew nearer. A street map of wrinkles, some wide avenues traced near her winter weary mouth.
From the carton she plucked a white egg and held it out. "This is for you," she said. "You need this."
I held out my hand and she carefully placed it on my palm. The cold white weight of this egg nested
in my hand. "Thank you for giving it to me," I stammer. Then, she turns and crosses the street her gray hair flying in a biting wind.
I wonder why I have been gifted with this egg? A white egg from a street woman who knows I need
to remember that sacred moments come in unexpected ways and wonder comes in a white egg.
SOLers: This experience is true and happened yesterday as I was parking my car in front of a building at a university campus. I was on my way into an interview for admission to the Southern Maine Writing Project. The first thing I was asked to do was a ten minute write about this prompt: Why Write? I wrote about the white egg.