This morning my daughter, who is expecting twins,
sends me a text, a picture of the morning egg in the frying pan.
A double-yolk egg. Two sunny-side-up yolks shimmer in the
buttery pan, each twin yolk perfect, in a single, egg-white bed.
The odds, according to the internet, my daughter says, are a thousand to one. Who will eat them, I ask, thinking,
Who would dare?
What I couldn’t tell her at the time and can’t today
is that last week I cracked an egg into my buttery pan.
One yolk split, dribbled, hopelessly wounded, as it fell
from the shell. The other looked up at me, taut, yellow,
whole. Did it know its sister broke? I can’t tell my
daughter that I too had met a double-yolk egg—because
I am all superstition, symbolism, fear. I text her: you eat them.
You need the protein. Make nothing of the odds.