Shelled

My feet fall asleep while I’m standing over the stove waiting for the water to come to a boil. It’s ten minutes once we see the first few cracks in the surface then five more to go once we see the first burst of air make its way through hot liquid. My mom says it’s been nice making tea in California’s winter. The ritual slows her down, softens her eyes. “Even if all I do is let the tea bag sit in a cup of steaming water until I forget I made it in the first place.” We have that in common. The trouble with sitting still, letting things come about in their own time. I fill a pot three quarters of the way and wait for a change to come.

This time it’s two eggs floating, rocking to their rebirth. You were hard on the surface too, not to bring this back to you. It took one two three taps against hard cold countertops to break them open, break you open. A hard thin layer just barely keeping everything controlled and contained. My feet are still tingling from my stance or maybe it’s the frozen tile floors chilling them from the outside in. I rub one against the other to bring the feeling back. Starting in my toes and moving up by inches then feet. I checked to see if they’re ready but they’ve still got more to go. There’s a soft and gentle boy inside of every good man I’ve ever known.