I had a sort of miniature shrine to a tiny, speckled egg. I found the egg out on the patio on a summer’s day about a decade ago. I could not find were it had tumbled from. It was perfect and pristine and I think I half-believed it might hatch in the little nest I made for it.
The relic lay quietly and undisturbed on a bookshelf for many years. Until the other day, when, in an episode of overdue spring cleaning, I took it out of its little bowl and shook it gently. I could feel its insides rattle about like the prize in a plastic Easter egg.
And then, suddenly, it seemed to come alive. It opened itself in my hands softly and exquisitely, like a pair of fluttering wings, and revealed to me the heart of solid yolk at its centre.
I like to imagine that this egg was silently waiting all this time for the moment when something would stir from within and crack its shell wide open.
And I wonder if each of us is much like that wee egg, cradling treasure inside a fragile armor, longing to present a heart to the world.