April 1981. My brother and I are running around the backyard, searching for Easter eggs. It’s cold. Our movements are static, slightly-delayed in my mind—as though this is not a memory but an old slide-show film from the 70s.
He’s being nice to me for once, my brother. I remember that. Just yesterday, he stole my Miss Piggy doll and wouldn’t give it back until I burst into tears. Today, though, he’s a gem for all to see. I’ve got on his hand-me-down clothes, a red shirt that barely covers my round belly and elastic blue jeans. He pulls me this way and that, a little roughly, but I understand that this is “nice” for my brother.
For all the effort, I haven’t found any eggs. My brother has beaten me to all of them. But Mother, who is sweet and has a pretty, soft voice, tells him to “help” his sister find one. So he drags me over to a large rock in the yard and lo and behold, there is an egg tucked right beside it. I am happy.
Later. In Kindergarten, I find only one egg at our class Easter egg hunt. I am given a mercy award for having found the least amount in the class. I tried to find more, kind of. It’s exhausting running around for silly eggs. I get to the predictable hiding spots too late.
I learn a lesson about running after the other kids and doing what they are doing that day: if you run after what others have, you’ll end up panting–with nothing to show for it. I try to follow the kids who seem lucky in egg-hunting, but it gets me nowhere. For one thing, these kids are lucky; they find all the eggs. Everyone else has lots of eggs, and I am the only one who doesn’t. If only I could do it again, I think to myself 21 years later, I would be more intuitive, finding eggs—and my way—for myself.
Of course, lessons are easily forgotten. By the time I’m in 5th grade, the new girl at a new school, I try desperately to find a different face in the mirror, one more like popular girls in my class. I try to be like the other girls, thinking they are sure to help me find the light that seems to glow around them. But other girls are quicker than me, and I don’t become part of the entourage of snippy white girls in a poor town. I am reduced to slinking back to my unhappy existence, having clearly not found any eggs.
These days. The only time I ever eat eggs is if my father scrambles them. I watch my father work, smiling, laughing easily. He cracks and breaks the eggs. This is no big deal for him. Eggs are eggs to him. For me, they symbolize everything I have ever wanted but have been unable reach: popularity, maturity, understanding, friendship, and love. All the woes of childhood and adulthood found in the most common of breakfast foods.
Sitting at the table, listening to my father carry on, I hear my dad in another place and time telling me to let it go. I <em>should</em> let all the old go. I’ve spent too long pondering the past. I should enjoy my own life. Resolved for the moment, I can table this struggle for another day. I smile at my father.
With a little salt, I think, those eggs will be awfully tasty.
11 comments
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August 3, 2009 at 4:32 pm
valbrussell
🙂 We have a great deal in common. You will prevail. Like it or not. Why? Because you have a lust for life…even if it is in a dark room.
August 4, 2009 at 4:22 am
Uncle Tree
I like seeing this from you, M’Lady.
Well done! Eggs have always been
the talk of the town. But the way
you put it here…they now mean
one more thing. Good for your dad!
August 4, 2009 at 7:40 am
medicatedlady
Val–we get each other. You had me at “dark room.” 😉
Uncle–thanks so much. I wrote this a few years ago and came across it yesterday. Since I hadn’t done much with it, I decided to post for a change of pace. I do love me some scrambled eggs!
August 4, 2009 at 3:02 pm
poeticgrin
M’Lady. I refuse to believe you ever let your brother push you around. Did you not karate chop him or hit him with a tiny purse?
August 4, 2009 at 3:46 pm
medicatedlady
I was 2 years old and I’m pretty sure by the time I was 2 1/2 years old, my brother knew who was boss.
August 4, 2009 at 4:09 pm
Jade
As I read this poem, I was thinking of how close to home this really does hit. I am in with love part of my life. Part of it I feel as though I am still struggling with and lately have found myself looking at everyone elses full easter baskets while mine doesn’t have as many eggs in it and trying to figure out how to change that. Thank you for reminding me to just live my life and be happy for what I have.
August 4, 2009 at 9:24 pm
1writegirl
Somehow I managed also to inspire my brother’s wrath merely by existing (how dare I!) and as compensation, received a small boulder to the head requiring an immediate trip to the ER (for me) and a sound spanking (for my brother). If you were to ask me what I’d done to make him so angry, I would not be able to tell you, nor would he, yet it was so real to him at that point that I’m sure I deserved nothing less. He has mellowed out somewhat by now, thankfully, otherwise 3,000 miles between us simply would not be enough. Yass, I love him, as they say, he ain’t heavy…well, you know..
August 5, 2009 at 9:00 am
B. R. Belletryst
The mention of the easter egg hunt, and subsequent wisdom about chasing your own path really stuck with me, since I read this first.
I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. I started out not wanting to chase the eggs. I’m so naturally noncompetitive, that … I’ve never been one to chase, run, play, or be part of a team. When other kids were chasing eggs, I was examining dandelions and insects, reading any nonfiction book I could get my hands on, researching, and trying to understand the world around me.
To this day, I’d rather read a book about animals than any of the classics.
I remember crying a lot when I was younger. Really younger. Because I couldn’t follow any path but my own. By the Sixth grade I knew I’d be a writer, mainly a poet. My teachers seemed to know it too. And it was around fifth grade that I started to pursue my own path and stop being what my mother would preach to me as being “a normal preteen.” Lots of struggles there. I didn’t try to be anyone else, except for the ideal that I set forth for myself.
My egg has always seemed to be in the direction that other kids weren’t going. It’s like they were always going for the egg in the middle of the pavement in open sight, all of them running for it… and I’m going through the rabbit hole to alice’s playground to retrieve an egg with my name only written on it.
And on a side note, I hate eating eggs. I only like the yokes. The egg whites freak me out.
I enjoy your writing, and it makes me dig deeper into myself, as always, Mommy.
–Bunny.
August 5, 2009 at 11:05 am
Jade
I am going to comment again. I have thought about this poem a lot since you posted it and it is such a great poem and moving. So many can relate to this poem and it makes you examine yourself more. Love it.
August 5, 2009 at 6:47 pm
jessiecarty
loved reading about this 🙂
if I didn’t live somewhat in the past i might not have any poetry!
August 9, 2009 at 1:53 pm
Sara Smith Ross
This is a beautiful essay. Thank you for sharing it. It touched my heart. I can see the pain in your life being used for good.
Thanks for leaving a comment on my Dad’s blog, “Your Story Matters”. He appreciated it. (He writes, I post.) Here is my favorite poem that my Dad has written.
Your Beauty
Your story is wonderful
Your familiarity
Blinds you to your own beauty
You must look closer
It takes a paradigm shift
A change of lenses to see
Pain as being a part of
Beauty in your life
It is in the silent night
There is a whisper of love
Heard only in the stillness
A quiet thunder
The chaos was a great gift
Looking back I clearly see
The pain caused me to search out
Love searching for me
Terry Smith