Waiting for the Rain

The purity of an egg

It is about to rain. If not for the buzz saw of the next door neighbor repairing her deck, the whole world would be silent, holding it’s breath for the promised thunder.

Saturday morning, the house uncommonly quiet. Your husband is away, the one person who knows the unfathomable complexity of a stereo system that denies you the ability to fill the void of his absence with music. And yet his absence constitutes a guilty pleasure that any honest person who lives with others should admit to. Alone, you are released from habits you have long accepted as your life. You are free to luxuriate in the novelty of once more being the mistress of your own ship.

Suddenly, the buzz saw turns off and you finally remember how your phone is quite capable of playing your favorite songs. The smell of rain mixes with the scent of the nearby sea and a desire for the perfection of a single egg for breakfast takes hold.

Thunder ripples as you carefully slide the egg into the old ceramic cup and carry it to the table. The first gentle pierce of the egg’s fragile white skin releases its yellow heart that defies the gloomy sky. You hope your husband remains safe as he drives back home to you in the deluge.