Grandfather's Eggs | Teen Ink

Grandfather's Eggs MAG

October 10, 2016
By ada.10.31 BRONZE, Harrisonburg, Virginia
ada.10.31 BRONZE, Harrisonburg, Virginia
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
Life without music would Bb.


The oil spills

gently from the bottle,
like a miniature waterfall
flowing
over a rock in a river. 
The oil catches
the gleaming kitchen light
of my late grandfather’s house
and forms
a perfect circle
on the matte black frying pan. 
I tap
the smooth egg
on the rim
of the silver kitchen sink.
Crack,
crack,
crack,
as the lines spiderweb
across the calcium carbonate crystals.
I picture Grandfather
standing near the sink
with his maroon apron. 
I open the shell,
and the egg dives into the oil.
Sizzle,
sizzle,
sizzle.
Grandfather always held the egg
close to the pan as he opened it,
so the oil
wouldn’t splash
into his face.
The bottom of the egg
transforms into white,
like a chameleon
against the bark of a birch tree.
An aroma of frying food 
reaches
every corner of the kitchen.
The smell
lingers
in the air.
It reminds me
of how I sat at the wooden table
admiring
Grandfather’s cooking skills.
The salt sprinkles
down over the egg.
The pepper showers the egg,
like leaves falling
in autumn.
Achoo!
Pepper always made Grandfather sneeze.
I remove my eggs from the stove,
and I take a bite
with Grandfather’s favorite fork
that Grandmother gave him.
This fork
is a piece of Grandfather
that still remains. 
As the warmth
spreads
through my mouth,
I remember
how Grandfather made me eggs
every day
until he was gone.



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