THE EGG

They sat at the kitchen table staring at the egg.

They’ d found it in the garden.

It was pale blue and quite small. It was placed between the toast rack and the marmalade.

“What is it dear?”

“I don’t know. I think its an egg”.

They sat quietly munching toast and drinking tea, all the while looking at the turquoise shell that had now joined them.

They finished their toast and read the morning papers. Now and then they peered over the local news at the blue egg.

The headline read “Blown to Smithereens: Landmine kills Local Girl”

“She would have liked this egg dear”

“I know. She was a keen naturalist wasn’t she.”

On the mantelpiece was a photograph of a young female soldier, proud and resolute in the sunshine of her life. Next to her was a folded letter from the Ministry explaining how she’d been protecting children when a mine had gone off. She was killed instantly and they should be very proud. She was a hero.

The breakfast table had carried on being set for three as usual since they’d got the letter two weeks ago. Plate, knife, spoon, cup and saucer, egg cup and a folded napkin. Like they’d always done.

The elderly couple both gazed at the space behind their daughter’s chair, a space stretching into the endless infinite of nothing. It would go on forever if they could have seen that far.

They looked at each other, smiled and held hands. There was nothing more to say. They had cried and cried the weeks before, a tidal wave of sorrow engulfing them and their whole world. It seemed smaller, the world and as if on an empty beach on the last day of Earth they peered into the future where they saw a blank hole filling with darkness.

“It’ll be alright dear.”

“We’ll make do and carry on.”

“She would have wanted that for us. To carry on.”

But the thought of carrying on was to each of them secretly an impossible task. It would have been easier to count the atoms of all the tears they’d shed since the man from the Ministry had knocked on the door.

“She’s never coming home dear.”

They squeezed each other’s hands tighter and let their heads look down at the table cloth decorated with chicks and ducklings. It was a week before Easter.

The egg they had found under the hazel began to move.

It was almost imperceptible at first, a faint vibration in the shell that tapped the table like a polygraph.

The vibrations increased until the egg actually began to roll a little, knocking into the jam jar with a clink, then returning to its original spot.

“That’s funny dear.”

“I know.”

The old pair were transfixed by the movements. The egg wobbled and shook for an age until finally there was an audible but gentle crack.

The crack became bigger and the egg split jaggedly into two halves.

From within a small creature popped out onto the cork mat and “peeped”.

It was the most beautiful thing that the pair had ever seen in their entire lives, a fragile being emitting light and colour from its every pore. It flopped around awhile until, mustering some unseen force, it stood up and looked at them.

“Oh my! Its her, its our lovely girl, she’s come back!”

“Yes dear, she has!”

The ancient couple cried and laughed as the little hatchling hopped around the breakfast things bumping into the empty egg cup, where it jumped up and landed in its neat striped bowl. It peered from over the rim and seemed to smile.

“Our baby!”

The two were overjoyed beyond comprehension. It was a miracle where no miracle could exist. A sticking-together of a shattered daughter blown to bits just before Easter. A world re-made.

Their hearts filled with a million memories of family life like wine: becoming parents, tending her needs, playing in the garden by the hazel, looking for the bunny, her first day at school, her prom, her eighteenth limo and her passing out tall and proud.

They shut their eyes to recall it all and never opened them again.

A small chick jumped across the tablecloth, pecked at their joined hands and flew away through the open kitchen window into the blue day beyond.