An egg rests in the palm of my hand, creamy nut-brown shell smooth and cool against my skin, farm fresh from the fridge. The curve of my palm must have been made with this egg in mind, so perfectly do the two meet in their oblong love affair, held in quick kitchen trysts between whisk and frying pan. The shell gives the illusion of stability but we both know it is temporary and, by the sheer nature of its eggness, it is already weighted with the promise of a meal - perfectly poached and roped into the family business of breakfast.
Cradling the egg, I feel I am cradling the universe. I crack it open. Is this reckless? Do universes come in packs of "1 doz"?
The inside of the egg has never seen the world until now, in my kitchen at 8:13 a.m. on Thursday. Monumental in its newness, yet mundane it its regularity, the cracked egg reminds me of those moments of realization I had as a child, when the thin shell of fantasy had just cracked and a richer, starker light began pouring in.
Perhaps I am inside an infinity of nesting eggs, and to reach the outermost shell would be to see the truth of things...
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