Broken Eggs

        The sun had just started its descent in the sky as I headed back from walking my niece to her dance class. I shivered, pulled my coat closer to my body, and picked up my pace. The dance studio is in one of three strip malls that line the east side of the road, across from my nieces's school. The walk back to my sister's house is a short one, and despite the chill, I was glad to be outside. 

    My sister had texted me earlier that day to see if I could watch my niece for a few hours. Her mother-in-law, my niece's grandmother, is very sick, and my sister and her husband had to go to the hospital to meet with the palliative care team. It is a very sad situation. Despite the fact that his mother is sedated, my brother-in-law has spent every afternoon with her since she was sent to the hospital. She doesn't know he is there, but he is a loyal, loving son, and he sits with her for as much time he is allotted. Difficult decisions will have to be made soon, and my heart is heavy for him, for my sister, for their family.

    I was thinking about my sister's mother-in-law as I navigated the broken sidewalk in front of the strip mall. Due to the unexpected timing, I was sporting my work clothes: a dress and heels. Not wanting to trip in one of the cracks in the sidewalk, I was watching the ground when I noticed six small bird eggs scattered on the sidewalk, broken. Their shells had cracked when they crashed to the pavement, and there were bits of shell and runny yolk splattered on the cement. 

    For some reason, the sight of these shells, of these lives not lived, depressed me, and my eyes welled up with tears. I cried all the way back to my sister's house. I cried for her mother-in-law, for her sons, for my sister, for my niece who will miss her nanny, for the fragility of life, for a life cut short.