But he was confused, new to the game, not really that concerned, and I stepped past him easily enough and took the small pipping green egg, this hatchling critter who, when she was finally free of the hard shell, fit easily into the palm of my one hand.
I raised her inside for months until she was big enough, then outside in a greenhouse. She was beautiful, of course, and smelled fabulous to me, with my mother's eyes and nose.
When I left that far-off land, I left her in the care of both new human parents and the parents of her own kind. Knowing she was well was enough.
She died today, at five and a half years old. It happened suddenly, mysteriously, in her sleep. These things happen.
Having recently been through the death of a beloved fur-child that was not sudden, not mysterious, and not fast, I do see the advantages in this quick transition.
And yet, and yet. It is not all that much easier.
But these things happen.
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Sorry to hear it. I wonder whether the egg on my mantle was a potential sibling....
ReplyDeleteThank you for the kind sympathy.
ReplyDeleteThe egg on your mantle was, yes, a potential sibling. Potential in the way that any chicken egg could be another chicken, or duck egg another duck. But rather unlikely for many reasons, including that it was laid at a random location rather than in the father's nest, collected by human hands shortly following, drilled open, and --not least of all -- consumed. As an omelette, probably.