Some mornings in the hospital they gave us boiled eggs, unpeeled puzzles we had to solve in our blue pyjamas. We cut them small, reaching for butter, pepper, salt in tiny packages. Like Gramma used to make, only her knives were not plastic. The man next to me frowned, tapped his egg lightly with a spoon, rolled it around on his plate, looking for an opening. "Just smash it, Rodney," I said. He said nothing; he never said anything. Finally he picked up the egg and brought it down hard, the egg and his smile cracking at the same time.
Linda M. Bayley is a writer and textile artist living on the Canadian Shield with her husband and her cat. X: @lmbayley