LISA RISBEC

It was a long day, weeks into an endless task and grief mixed with despair mixed with a thousand tiny decisions. Years of a life were spread out on a concrete driveway. Books carefully cleaned, put into piles. Archive, Useful, Past Best. 90s Delia and “look how young Jamie Oliver looks!”

The basket had a neat hole nibbled through the bottom, the edges frayed. Inside were old recipe books, family recipes handed down. (Pie-heavy of course).

There were several pens and the rest I can't remember. Just bits and everything disintegrated and mixed together into a sort of confetti. The softly fluttering confetti of years of hidden activity. It was almost beautiful, like the aftermath of a celebration with different colours and sparkly bits. But with tiny brown pellets dotted through as a reminder of the stark reality of the situation. The whole of a life broken down into fragments.

And at the bottom of the basket, there it was.

The Egg.

Fully formed, perfect in its smoothness. No cracks. Nestled neatly in the shredded paper.

A Single Egg.

I wondered, if I put it in some water, would it sink or float? But then I couldn't remember what it meant if it did. Anyway, the egg had stayed whole amongst everything, and maybe we could too.

Everything was broken, but maybe we could put it back together again in a different order and it just might be ok.

It started to drizzle and I gathered the books up into plastic tubs to try to preserve something, feeling like it was maybe a futile task, but doing it anyway.