Eight egg-faces engage us, bold black lines on smooth shell. Some googly-eyed, some bemused, one a closed-eye open-mouthed laugh, another a mischievous wink. Eggs that’d earlier nestled in my son’s eight-year-old palm, canvases yielding to his pen’s caress. Each arched brow, each skewed smile, each protruding tongue speaks to me; words he cannot utter.
Is this the first tiny crack, a sign my chick may soon hatch?
He nestles into my shoulder, his touch as brief as it is unexpected, and as his downy head strokes my cheek, my frantic heart is calmed. I marvel anew at my glorious child.
This story was shortlisted in the April Monthly Micro Competition.
About the author: Bríd McGinley writes short fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work has appeared in The Bangor Literary Journal, Sonder Magazine, The Honest Ulsterman, The Bramley FlashFlood, and Splonk among others. She lives by the sea in Co Donegal. @BridMcG