After peeling the hardboiled egg,
I cradle it in the palm of my hand,
and cut 3 thick slices from top to bottom
then turn it and cut the slices twice more.
I finish with those 9 white towers of
egg white waving hello to me.
As I finish dicing them, I remember
the knife always beckons Mom
to come watch me perform this ritual.
Its call is beyond my ear
but far away she looks up
from reading her book and smiles.
I carry her in my heart and my hands
and the strings I pluck are hers.
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