Be gentle with my heart,

Love,

It’s a fragile little thing. 

My mother once made Ukrainian eggs with us when we were children. We each picked an egg, they almost all looked and felt exactly the same. Rounded and smooth like marble and made you think they were sturdy as stone, but could make quite a mess if broken. We took turns gently pin pricking the tip of the egg to allow the insides to come out and to allow the empty shell to dry. When I was young there were no metaphors or similes, there were no heartbreaks and poems, there was just words and just life. The yellow goop that dropped out of the egg wasn’t a metaphor for how my heart felt when you left. The pin, not to be compared with the blade in my heart when you said you don’t love me. The fragile shell left behind was not a way to describe what you left when you walked away. No, it was just an egg. We pulled out delicate paint brushes and beautiful paints in an attempt to paint the masterpiece that we had created. Gentle strokes, back and forth and back and forth pausing only long enough to let one section dry before starting another. But that’s all it was, painting. Not the way I painted a mask to hide my pain from the world, to hide my fear of dying alone. Not the way I keep myself busy to avoid facing the empty side of my bed or to avoid thinking about you because if I pause too long the memory will dry out and then I’ll have to admit it’s true. No, this is just paint. We finished our eggs and let them dry in the setting sun on a summer day. We picked them up and carefully carried them to their own special pedestal for display, so proud of what we had made. I am in the sun now, my tears are drying faster than I can cry them and there’s this memory. Excited feet in big bird slippers running down wooden steps, I hope someone will come pick me up soon, place me on my own pedestal and finally admire me for the masterpiece my mother created. I deserve to be the display for once, though my mother’s words still echo in my ears like mountains, down through the hallway in which I used to run,

Be gentle with that egg,

Love,

It’s a fragile little thing.