You’re leaving.
The blue van recedes down the driveway and I wonder if the kids have shut their eyes yet.
I walk back to the house, conscious of the pain of the rocks under my feet.
I don’t know why I didn’t put on my shoes.
The house, which moments ago was draped in the warm cacophony of shouts and giggles, now lies silent and horizontal.
I distract myself.
The first egg breaks too soon and the golden yolk slides toward me and down on the floor.
I pour salt on it and wait for it to mend into something I can grasp.
Tears stream.
When will you return?