Aunt Greta says, “Have a little egg, Bobby. You want to be big and strong, don’t you?  Have a little egg for your Mommy.”  I look at her and say nothing.  I won’t eat eggs anymore.

My Mommy does not care if I eat my egg.  She’s not coming back.  I heard the kids laughing that after she stabbed Dad in the gut, she cut off his fingers and was eating them when the police came.  The policeman had to hit her with a night-stick to make her let go of the bloody knife.  They threw away the keys of the loony bin, the kids said.

Dad and I used to eat eggs sunny side up.  He’d throw one up in the air, then catch it and break it into the bowl.  He let me try, too.  I had yolk running down my forehead and my second one splattered on the table.  He laughed so hard his hands were shaking when he wiped the oozy shell from my hair.

I woke that night when Mommy was screaming that he was a whoremonger and she’d make him sorry.  I don’t know what that is but I guess she is sorry.  She can’t eat his fingers.

Aunt Greta wants me to be big and strong.  Dad was big and strong.  He could lift me and sit me on his shoulders.  I won’t eat eggs anymore.

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