THE EGG

Being eight years old, my mother often gave me freedom to play outside by myself.  I was also allowed to go to my neighbour’s house and play with Micheline in her backyard.  She was in my class and we took the school bus together.

She had a vegetable garden in the backyard that grew forest green cucumbers with white spiky dots. Those cucumbers were always my favourite.  They were so watery, it would dribble down my chin. 

The garden always grew the same things: 

Crunchy carrots and crisp light green lettuce, flavourful radishes, plump red and yellow tomatoes and extra large zucchinis.  Sometimes there was even striped watermelons. 

I loved the smells of the vegetables.  It smelled of growth.  It smelled of nature and health.  The dark leafy greens smelled of fresh cut grass, the fruits smelled sweet and inviting, and the tomatoes had that bold and zesty smell.

Micheline had a tall red maple tree in the front yard.  It was almost as tall as her house, and almost as thick and round as my arms could stretch.  We enjoyed having picnics under that tree.  The shade felt cool on my freckled skin when the sun would blaze and the heat, making the crickets sing out, would stick to you like a woollen

blanket.

I walked over to the tree’s trunk one afternoon to stop short in my tracks.  I had almost stepped on a bird’s egg that had fallen out of the neat brown nest above my head.  It was a small pastel blue egg with light tan speckles. I recognized it at once as belonging to a robin.  The robins could be heard singing their soft good-mornings everywhere in the neighbourhood in spring and summer.  I often caught them pulling out wiggly worms from the ground, which is what they like best to eat.

I gently picked up the tiny egg, nestled it in my hands and brought it home.  I wanted to make it hatch!  I knew that I would have to make a nest for it, so I went back outside to find twigs, dry grass clippings and mud.  I brought the nest inside and put it

under a small red lamp my mother had on a bookcase in the living room.  I released the egg to my homemade nest and waited for it to hatch.

I checked on the egg for two days before I noticed a small crack in the egg and a light decaying smell.  I knew then that the robin chick was not alive.  I went to bury the stinky egg in my neighbour’s garden.  I was disappointed.

That summer when the vegetables were ready, Micheline’s mother asked me if I wanted to help pick the vegetables with them.  My mother gave me permission, and I had to admit, it was less tedious than waiting and watching for an egg to hatch.