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I lied when Pops asked, but I’ll admit it now. I did touch the blue egg to see if, somehow,
it felt as much like the sky as it looked. The egg: speckled in its twiggy nest, eye level to
8-year-olds, perfect & off-limits like the Baoding balls on Pops’ desk. We tried to find
its mom, but the finches scattered when we came near. One twittered the alarm from a
maple. Others balanced on wires, flapped wings at us like we were gravity. I can still
see how carefully Garrett scooped the egg from the nest, then headed out to find a spot
on the March concrete to drop it. I want to see if these things break into pieces or in
half like on TV. Always the follower, I followed him through the maples out into the
treeless street, my stomach dropping before the egg did. A crunch, then no more noise.
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