I was ten, maybe, visiting my friend Becky, who lived on a farm down the street where they raised cows, pigs, and ducks. She and I spotted a lone duck egg that had fallen from its nest into the pond. I held onto a tree trunk and leaned out to coax the egg toward us using a long stick, finally pulling it close enough to pluck it from the water.
Becky’s mom said I could have it, and when I asked my own mother if I could try to hatch it, she said sure. So I formed a nest from one of my T-shirts, tucked the egg into an old sock and lay it gently on the wad of fabric. Then I positioned a desk lamp nearby, moving it this way and that until the bulb was close enough to provide warmth, but far enough to avoid igniting the shirt.
When I left for school, I made my mother promise to watch it; I was afraid the duckling would hatch while I was gone and suffocate in the sock.
If I was home, I kept watch. Weeks passed. One, two, perhaps three. The egg showed no signs of life.
Eventually I asked my mother if she thought it would ever hatch. She said probably not. Not after this long.
“Should I crack it open?” I asked.
“You could, if you want to, ” she said.
“What’s going to be inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it’s not a duck, will it be rotten?”
“I don’t know. You might want to take it far from the house, just in case.”
I cradled the egg in my hands and walked gingerly out to one of the fields in search of the right place. I spotted a big, flat fieldstone that could work. Whatever was in the shell could rest on the rock long enough for me to see it, study it…care for it.
I squatted, held the long-nurtured egg and apologized to the little life it might have been—might be?—and then slowly, lightly, tapped the shell.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, ” I murmured. “I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry.” I tapped, but still lightly. Tears came slowly. “I’m so sorry…” tap-tap. “I’m so, so sorry…” tap-tap-tap.
The shell gave way. I pulled it apart gently, as close to the rock as possible, to ease its contents onto the unforgiving surface.
Slimy yolk and whites slid out. It didn’t smell. A goopy, blood-colored spot made my stomach lurch. But…was it fertilized? If I’d regulated its temperature more precisely, might it have formed into a duckling?
I couldn’t bear to look at it.
On my way back to the house, I questioned myself, Should I have stayed home from school to watch over the egg? Should I have bought an incubator?
“What was in it?” my mother asked when I came in the back door.
“Nothing, ” I looked at her. “It was just a regular egg.”
“Was it rotten?”
“No.”
I thought of the red spot and I felt a breaking—deep inside.
Photo by Peggy2012CreativeLenz, Creative Commons, via Flickr. This is a modified reprint from “One Lone Duck Egg, ” by Ann Kroeker, that was first written for The High Calling and Foundations for Laity Renewal. Reprinted with permission. Ann is the co-author of On Being a Writer: 12 Simple Habits for a Writing Life that Lasts.
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Donna says
I felt a breaking too. Deep inside. Because you described this so precisely…. tenderly. You didn’t have to tell me how to feel – because I could already feel it.
I learn a lot from you, Ann. Thank you.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you, Donna, for being here to read it and feel it. With me.
Katie Andraski says
Thank you for this beautiful, heartfelt, story.
Ann Kroeker says
Katie, I appreciate your note.
Maureen Doallas says
A lovingly written and poignant essay, Ann.
Ann Kroeker says
This moment was packed with so much in real time, and again as I remembered and wrote about it. Thanks for your kind words, acknowledging all of that.
Sandra Heska King says
Oh, wow, Ann. I love your mom. She could have discouraged that, told you it was hopeless, kept you from breaking… but she didn’t. And look at these words you’ve given us. I need a tissue.
Ann Kroeker says
She let me have a fair amount of freedom and maybe it was easier for her to let me discover it than tell me herself. Yet, I asked her once and she said, “I didn’t know what would be inside! I truly didn’t!”
Thanks for being here with me, in this memory, this moment.
Laura Brown says
Oh, what tenderness.
Ann Kroeker says
I wanted so badly to find life…
Bethany Rohde says
I like how you don’t talk about the red spot outloud to your mother (yet). It feels like we have a special understanding with you which adds intimacy to the piece.
Ann Kroeker says
Thanks for noting that, Bethany. Yes, I invited readers into a moment that had, up to now, been mine alone.
Megan Willome says
i remember this one!
Ann Kroeker says
🙂
Ann Kroeker says
I was just thinking, though, how stories stay with us so long, so indelibly.
Elizabeth Marshall says
Ann, I am moved by the fragility of life today with so much horrific news.
This story is simple yet profoundly soul stirring.
I love how you chose to tell the story. Its brevity makes it even more poignant.
Beautiful.
Ann Kroeker says
Thank you so much, Elizabeth, for making that connection to the fragility of life today.
Sandra Wirfel says
Beautiful and sad at the same time. Thanks for sharing.
Ann Kroeker says
Sandra, I’m glad to meet you and thank you for taking time to comment.
Sandra Wirfel says
Slimy yolk and whites slid out. It didn’t smell. A goopy, blood-colored spot made my stomach lurch. But…was it fertilized?
Beautiful piece.
In my household we always crack our egss in a separate bowl to watch out for the bloody spots. But I could never tell my children why, because I nevr knew….
Ann Kroeker says
Sandra, I missed your note a year ago and just saw it today. Keeping the bloody spots a secret from the children, sparing them, is so sweet. That, too, could be worked into a poem. It reminds me of a scene in The Red Pony by Steinbeck where the farm hand who serves as a father figure to the boy tells him the red spot in the egg is “only a sign the rooster leaves.” Simple explanation. I guess it’s good the boy got some kind of explanation. Your solution was more discreet…one that I would have done.
Dolly@Soulstops says
Oh…tenderly and beautifully told, Ann.
Ann Kroeker says
Dolly, thank you so much for this note.
Sharon A Gibbs says
Ann, I love that I was gifted with reading your essay as part of my reading in the TSP workshop, The Joyful Partnership of Poetry and Memoir! Such emotion and tenderness.
Even with vigilance and a great amount of love, sometimes we still have to say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”
Ann Kroeker says
Sharon, I’m honored to know you read and delighted to see your comment. I hope you find ways to express the snippets of memory you want to capture.