Making Egg Salad Early One Morning

Standing barefoot in the kitchen,
making egg salad, one of the three things
that she will eat. Thick morning fog melting
slowly into the light in the east window.

The memories of her mother's funeral
are haunting. She cries in the bed, rolling over
and over, the proverbial knife in her heart,
unable to breathe at times, the words
sliding out of her sweet, limp lips:
"There's no closure in this amount of time."

I know these things too well. The practice
sucks. My words are empty shells,
delicate enough to crack with a single word.
I let her wallow in her own amniotic goo.

"I'll walk the dog," she says. It doesn't matter
that she isn't dressed. The birds don't care
that her feathers are missing.

I take the seventh egg and hold it against
my chest. I crack it on the edge of the bowl
but the membrane refuses to peel away. Its
surface is a pitted mess. I should save it
for the dog.