Obit 7 (for the Robin’s egg)

Obit 7 (for the Robin’s egg)

I was mowing the lawn and trying to do it like the golf courses, like I liked. 

I stopped short right by the base of the pear tree because I didn’t want to run over the anomaly. I had fixed the mower enough times to not make this mistake again. 

I released the gas, the motor purred to quiet, and I approached the bright blue ball. It wasn’t a toy; it was a robin’s egg. 

I had never seen one before but I knew what it was when I saw it. There’s no mistaking that most perfectly unbelievable turquoise.

I looked up at the barren pear tree, not yet flowering, a spectacular bony structure against the white winter sky. I saw the nest, visible and vulnerable. 

I got the tall ladder and a pair of sterile gloves from a first aid kit, knowing that the egg would be useless if there was a whiff of humanity on it. 

I placed the egg back in the nest with a sinewy, tall, hopeful reach. 

When I got back down the ladder, I reflected on how much care I’d taken in something no one else would ever see. 

And I knew my 15 year relationship was over. 

I went out the next morning, dragging out the tall ladder again to check on the egg in its nest.

And what can I say?

There were just too many crows in that neighborhood. 

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