Egg
by Sarah Black
My neighbor brings me a warm brown egg with a smudge of red dirt on the shell. She is bent and wrinkled and dressed in widow's black, and she brings me a fresh egg every day. She only has two chickens.
"Uovo," she says, handing me the egg. I cradle it carefully in my hand.
Uovo is egg in Italian. Uovo, uovo, I love that word. Say it and your lips think they are about to get kissed. She gives my pregnant belly a little rub for good luck.
Eggs make strong bones, she tells me, and babies need strong bones. Babies need strong hearts, strong blood. I don't speak Italian, and she doesn't speak English, but I understand her perfectly. We share one word.
Copyright © 2006 Sarah Black
Sarah Black is a fiction writer living near the four corners in Arizona. Her short fiction has been published by Word Riot, Flashquake, and Slow Trains Literary Journal. You can find out more about Sarah Black at her website.